Master Spinner
by raeymaeker
Summary: Archie has made a deal with the notorious businessman Mr. Gold: he will teach a spinning class at Storybrooke State University and in return, Archie will submit a positive evaluation to the board of Mills and Associates. Mr. Gold agrees, but never imagined that he'd find not only friendship but love through the process.
1. Chapter 1

Archie could hear Mr. Gold yelling as soon as the elevator doors opened. He winced.

"Nobody breaks deals with me, dearie. Nobody! Ah, yes, yes, I'm truly sorry for your recent misfortunes—"

It was very clear from the snarl in his voice that Mr. Gold was anything but sorry. Archie didn't have to see Mr. Gold to imagine his lip curling with scorn.

"—but need I remind you of the contract you signed with Mills and Associates dated the ninth of March, 2008? Let's read it, shall we? Refresh your memory a bit?"

As Mr. Gold proceeded to read the contract out loud, loading every syllable with more disdain than Archie thought possible, he approached the secretary's desk. She was an older, plumpish woman with white hair pulled up into a bun. Very much the grandmotherly sort, and Archie couldn't help but think that she seemed out of place.

_Make a note: why would Mr. Gold keep such a secretary?_

"Bad day?" Archie asked, giving her a shy smile and gesturing to Mr. Gold's office. When he'd stepped out of the elevator, Archie had assumed that Mr. Gold was verbally thrashing someone in the hallway, not in his office behind a closed door. It was surprising how clearly the man's voice was carrying throughout the hall, and it was an even greater wonder that no one in the vicinity seemed to mind.

_Note: his associates appear to be used to him yelling._

"No, not really," she said, returning the smile. Her voice was warm and touched with an English accent. "As normal a day as ever."

_Note: tempers appear to be daily occurrences._

"You could even say that today has been a good day," she continued. "This is only his first, uh, _discussion_—" she emphasized the word meaningfully "—with a client today."

_Note: make that several times a day._

"So what can I do for you?" she pleasantly asked.

"I'm here to see Mr. Gold," Archie said.

"Brave," she said with a teasing smile as she looked him over. Frizzled red hair, round glasses, polka-dotted tie tucked into a vest, tweed suit, black umbrella—

_Odd_, she thought. _It wasn't raining today_.

—and an overall painfully sweet demeanor. Like a little boy in a big body. Not Mr. Gold's usual client type, but she knew security wouldn't have let him on this floor unless he had a reason to be here. "Name?" she asked, turning to the computer and pulling up the scheduler.

"Dr. Hopper. I was actually hoping to see him now, if that's okay." He heard Mr. Gold shouting, and added, "And after he's done with—with whatever he's doing now, of course. I don't wish to intrude."

"Dr. Hopper?" she repeated, sitting back as things fell into place. So she'd been right: not a client.

"Yes," he said. "Mr. Gold missed our meeting this morning, and so I thought that I'd—"

"He missed your appointment?" she said, her eyes narrowing and lips pursing up.

"Yes, well—"

"Why he keeps me around when he doesn't even follow the scheduler, I'll never know," she grumbled. She stood up and gestured to the waiting area. "Please sit, Dr. Hopper. Can I get you some tea while you wait?"

Archie saw a silver platter with porcelain tea pot and assorted bowls, cups, saucers, and spoons on the edge of the secretary's desk. "Uh, yes, please, that would be lovely. Thank you," he said.

She poured him a cup, added one sugar and some cream per his request, and handed it to him. "I'll see what I can do about squeezing you in," she said as she bustled to Mr. Gold's door. She lightly knocked three times and waited.

"I have no more time to listen to your drabblings, dearie," Archie heard Mr. Gold saying. "If you have further desire to voice your inane complaints, you can take it up with Ms. Mills. Good day." There was a slam—the phone, Archie assumed—then Mr. Gold called out in full Scottish brogue, "What is it, Mrs. Potts?"

The secretary—Mrs. Potts, he now knew—walked into the office, and Archie heard them speaking but it was too indistinct to make anything out. So instead, he turned to his tea and took a sip. It was the best tea he'd ever had. Remarkably good. He'd never been one for tea or coffee, preferring a good hot chocolate, but if he had Mrs. Potts around to make it, he would convert. Maybe that was why Mr. Gold kept her around. Archie surely would.

As he waited, savoring the taste, he thought about why he'd come. Ms. Regina Mills, CEO of Mills and Associates, had been forcing Mr. Gold to come to him for evaluation for the past month. Apparently, complaints about the infamous temper of Mr. Gold had been on the rise of late, and Ms. Mills, backed by the board of trustees, had finally given Mr. Gold an ultimatum: meet with a behavioral psychologist and get a positive recommendation or else. But as far as Archie could tell, the threat was rather hollow and that was the problem. Mr. Gold and everyone else knew that they would never—could never—get rid of him. When he had arrived twenty years ago with all his raw genius and shrewd cunning, he'd turned Mills and Associates from a mildly successful business to one of the most thriving companies in North America with sights on expanding overseas. He _was_ Mills and Associates, and had no intention on dancing to the board of trustees' tune. Much less Ms. Mills'. Mr. Gold knew his worth so behavior be damned.

But Archie had to deliver his evaluation to the Board in two weeks' time, and he still hadn't felt like he'd made any progress with Mr. Gold. The man had been antagonistic, at best, during every meeting they'd had. Antagonistic and manipulative. It was like he knew the Psychology Handbook front to back, and, Archie thought with a frown, Mr. Gold probably did. No man became as successful as he did without an understanding of what made humans tick. So Archie didn't know what to try next. He had hoped that under all the layers he might find something _there_, something more than the blazing confidence of a mastermind and the maddening drive for success. And Archie had to hope that there was something. It was his profession to hope. His nature. He couldn't believe that someone could be as entirely uncaring and anti-everything-good as Mr. Gold was. Then again, Archie never had been able to completely separate romanticism from science. He always had faith that people could change. And he had always been able to help his patients do so, at least in some small fashion. Until now, that was. And it was making Archie doubt himself.

_I'm going through a midlife crisis_, Archie self-diagnosed with a wry smile.

"Mr. Gold will see you now," Mrs. Potts said, drawing Archie out of his musing.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Mrs. Potts," he said. He stood up, grabbed his briefcase and umbrella, and handed the secretary his tea cup. "And thank you for the tea. It was—it was excellent. Thank you."

"You are very welcome, Dr. Hopper," she kindly said. "At least someone here recognizes my worth." That last bit was spoken more loudly, but there was no response from Mr. Gold's office.

Archie gave her a nod, thanked her again, and walked through the door.

_What a sweet, stammering man_, Mrs. Potts thought as she closed the door behind him, hoping he'd not wither up in front of Mr. Gold like a cricket on a sultry summer day. Then again, she was impressed for the man for coming. Maybe there was something more to him than polka-dotted amiability.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Hopper?" Mr. Gold asked without looking up from the work on his desk as Archie walked in, quickly studying Mr. Gold's work area.

_Note: very few personal touches. Large. Uncluttered. No pictures of humans—only abstract art, angular and dark-colored. Blinds drawn even though it must have one of the best views of the city in the building. Modest liquor cabinet—scotch out. Desk facing door, visitor's chairs shorter than his own but not obviously so—establishes authority. Credentials not framed on wall—expects that everyone already knows exactly who he is and what he is capable of. Bookshelf is—_

"A man once told me, Dr. Hopper, that a person's workspace is a window into their soul," Mr. Gold said, his Scottish accent thick and open.

Archie turned to see Mr. Gold looking up at him, observing how he had been looking about the room and having accurately guessed Archie's intention. Archie quickly smiled. "That's, um, very—very insightful," he said, taking a step forward. "I was hoping that we could discuss this morning's meeting which—"

"Yes, I missed it," Mr. Gold said brusquely, turning back to his work. "There was a meltdown in London which needed immediate attention, and I was quite sure that I'd be able to survive skipping our session without experiencing any negative consequences. And true to my analysis, I have suffered no psychotic breakdowns or rampages as of yet, so if you would please leave me be, you can schedule a make-up session with Mrs. Potts on your way out. Or—" he looked up "—you can acknowledge that our little sessions have no effect whatsoever upon my behavior and are a complete waste of everyone's time, you can give me my positive recommendation to the board of trustees, and we can part ways. Simple as that."

_Note: getting a positive evaluation actually matters to him. Why does Mr. Gold care if they'd never fire him anyway? Something else must be at stake…_

"A positive recommendation?" Archie repeated, clenching his umbrella. He could tell that Mr. Gold expected him to say yes. Mr. Gold was a gambler of people and he never lost his bets. Archie intended to be the first. His mid-life crisis was at stake.

"Yes," Mr. Gold said with one of his customary, sardonic smiles. "Please."

There was something in Mr. Gold's "please" that totally changed the intention of the word. Instead of putting Mr. Gold into a beggar's position, it elevated him. Archie could imagine how Mr. Gold could topple an entire corporation with that single word, and he couldn't help but marvel at the man's presence like he did every time they met.

"Mr. Gold, may I—may I sit?" Archie asked as he gestured to a chair.

Mr. Gold was silent for a brief moment, eyes cold, before he said, "By all means, dearie."

"Thank you," Archie said, sitting.

Mr. Gold capped his pen and leaned back, fixing Archie with his most scornful glare. He sure knew how to be intimidating. Archie had felt more comfortable during a stint working as the psychiatrist for a high-security prison than he did in this office.

For several seconds, Archie considered his approach, and he could tell Mr. Gold was calculating out all the possibilities, planning his counter-attack ahead of whatever Archie could say. It was a chess match—the sort of game Mr. Gold played every day in this office. So Archie smiled and tried something different.

"What do you do when you go home every night?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Gold asked, and though he concealed his emotions with impeccable finesse, Archie could tell that he had just scored a point. He had surprised the master.

"What do you do? Watch television? Cook? Order take-out? Do you ever spend time with people, women perhaps?"

"I usually work at the office until eight or later every night," Mr. Gold said, as though that answered the question.

"Yes, I know. We've already discussed how much you work," Archie said.

"And if you're asking whether I date or not, I believe we've already discussed my romantic life," Mr. Gold said.

"Yes, we have," Archie said, not adding that Mr. Gold had said next to nothing about it when they had discussed it. "But that's not what I mean. I want to know what you do. Tell me. Now. Hour by hour. What are you going to do the rest of today? Humor me."

Mr. Gold glared at him for a moment, sizing him up anew, then sighed and leaned forward. "Well, because of this meeting, I'll be behind schedule and not be able to leave the office until nine or later."

When Mr. Gold gave the briefest of pauses, Archie kept silent, realizing that the man was subtly trying to guilt him into giving up and leaving his office. But Archie refused to play into his hands.

"Then I will call my chauffeur, he will pick up take-out from Marcio's—"

One of the most expensive and premiere restaurants in town, Archie noted.

"—then pick me up and drive me home."

"And is the house dark when you get there?" Archie asked, and, again, Mr. Gold was thrown by the answer.

"Yes."

"No one else will be there tonight?"

"No, of course not," Mr. Gold all but growled.

_Note: in the future, ask Mr. Gold how he feels about coming home to a dark house._

"What next?" Archie pressed.

Mr. Gold paused again but continued. "I will tell my chauffeur—"

_Note: twice he has referred to his chauffeur without a name._

"—to pick me up at seven tomorrow morning. I will pick up my briefcase. I will pick up my dinner. I will step out of the car with my cane. I will go to my doorstep. I will unlock the door with my silver key. I will step through the threshold. I will enter the security code. Is this specific enough for you?" He had been spitting out the details before the question, trying either to bore Archie or irritate him. Archie just smiled.

"Perfect," Archie said. "So where will you eat tonight?"

Mr. Gold hesitated yet again. "At my desk. In my library. As I review information for a case I am handling tomorrow."

"Interesting," Archie said, pretending to write something in his notebook but really just wanting to further aggravate Mr. Gold. For the first time in their conversation, Archie felt in control. Point number two to him. "What next?"

"I will finish eating. I will write notes to Mrs. Potts so that she can have things ready for me by the time I come into the office tomorrow. I will brush my teeth, dress myself for bed—would you like more details here as well, dearie?" Mr. Gold was growing impatient.

"No, that's fine," Archie said. "Just tell me this: is there anything else you will do tonight beyond eating, working, preparing for bed, and sleeping?" He looked up from his notebook, pen dramatically poised over the paper.

"I might continue to inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide, but if I have more sessions like this to look forward to, I might choose not to anymore," he sarcastically said.

"And what about tomorrow night. Anything different of particular note?"

"Dinner will come from the Hausberghers." Another preeminent restaurant.

_Note: always pick-up. Doesn't appear to sit down at restaurants._

"So pretty much the same?" Archie asked.

"Yes," Mr. Gold ground out. "Now, will you please leave me in peace until our next unfortunate meeting, or would you like to know what times I visit the bathroom and what I do in there as well?"

"I would like to suggest to you, Mr. Gold, that you do something fun in your life. Learn a new hobby," Archie said, purposefully trying to say something as platitudinal as possible because he knew it would egg Mr. Gold on. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a flyer which he handed across the table. "Here are some of the crafts and hobbies being taught right now at the local rec. You should try something, spend time with people. They're not all so bad when you get to know them."

"Are you suggesting I learn underwater basket weaving with a bunch of old women?" Mr. Gold asked lowly, face completely devoid of emotion.

"If that's what interests you," Archie said, once again deliberately chafing him, and he could tell Mr. Gold knew what he was doing, just not why. "Now I wouldn't, as your psychologist, be urging so strongly that you should be doing something more in your life, if I felt that you had at least one hobby in your life that you enjoy. I wouldn't be as concerned for you if there was even just one thing which—"

"I spin," Mr. Gold said, cutting him off.

Archie smiled. Finally. Something new. Something personal. The first truly personal thing he'd ever learned about the notorious Mr. Gold. He didn't know what on earth Mr. Gold was actually talking about, but it didn't matter. "You spin?"

"Yes, I spin," Mr. Gold gruffly replied, realizing his misstep. Point number three to Archie.

Then something clicked in Archie's mind and a plot began to hatch. "Wait, you spin?" he repeated. "As in, a spinning wheel? Turning wool into thread? That sort of thing?"

"Yes. Is that adequately unique and engaging for you?"

"Are you good at it?" Archie asked, two things passing through his mind. First, why was Mr. Gold doing such a feminine and completely outdated thing? There was a story there. And second, would he take the bait? Archie knew he was now playing a game where his competitor was the master of all masters. But if he could just play it cool…

"Yes," Mr. Gold said, and Archie knew that the man must be proficient indeed to admit it. Mr. Gold was confident and proud, but only because he had a reason to be that way. He wouldn't ever lay claim to false pride. It wasn't in his nature.

"And how often do you spin?" Archie asked.

"Often enough," Mr. Gold said, patience finally run its course. "So now that we have established that I do indeed have something else in my life beyond eating, sleeping, breathing, and working, may I suggest that our meetings are no longer required and that you promptly leave me in peace." Mr. Gold stood up and was just crossing to the door when Archie made his move.

"How would you like to make a deal with me?" he asked, not budging from his chair.

Mr. Gold stopped in his tracks. "A deal?"

Archie caught a gleam of intrigue in Mr. Gold's eyes. Finally, they were speaking the same language. "Yes, I'd like to make a deal with you."

Mr. Gold hesitated then returned to his desk, sat down, and leaned back. Studying Archie, with steepled fingers resting against his lips, he said, "Okay. What's your deal, Dr. Hopper."

"How much do you know about Storybrooke?" Archie asked, knowing that now he had Mr. Gold's attention he could string it out.

"Twenty, thirty minutes east, small college town, nothing too special," Mr. Gold listed out the details. "Why?"

"SSU, Storybrooke State University, has a prestigious Medieval and Early Modern Studies program, one of the top ten or so in the nation, and Dr. Mary Margaret Blanchard—a history professor there—is holding a three-week seminar on the importance of weaving and other such skills on the social status of women before the modern era."

"Go on," Mr. Gold said.

"She's invited experts from many universities to teach on the historical and literary evidence, but she's also invited experts who can teach the students and other attendees how to actually weave and spin and whatever else. She wants them to actually experience what it is like."

Mr. Gold said nothing, and Archie took it as permission to continue.

"Such seminars are actually fairly common at universities during the summer, gathering together the foremost experts in a particular field and taking a month or so to—"

"And where do I fit?" Mr. Gold said, interrupting.

"Well Dr. Blanchard—Mary Margaret—she recently informed me that the person they had arranged to teach spinning has just pulled out, something to do with a medical emergency. Classes begin next week, and Mary Margaret is quite desperate…"

He trailed off, and the gleam in Mr. Gold's eyes quickly dissipated into scorn. "And you'd like, what? For me to go and teach a bunch of sniveling children how to spin?"

"Well, yes," Archie bluntly said.

Mr. Gold laughed. "I'm pleased you have a sense of humor, dearie, but if you would be so good as to leave now so that—"

"And in return," Archie interrupted, one of the only times he'd ever done so with a patient, "I will give the board of trustees and Ms. Mills a positive recommendation, and at any point down the road that they question your conduct again, I will again evaluate you positively. You participate in this seminar, teach this spinning, a couple hours in the evening three days a week for three weeks, and you will have my word that they will not bother you again."

It was a bit unethical, but if this is what it took to get Mr. Gold to do something with his life, Archie would take the risk.

Mr. Gold stared him down for a moment that seemed to stretch longer and longer. Archie wasn't sure, now, what Mr. Gold would do. Had Archie misread the situation? Misread that, for some reason, the positive recommendation had some greater importance than he had ever realized? That it actually meant something to Mr. Gold? That there was maybe something that Ms. Mills was holding over him or—

"Deal," Mr. Gold finally said, and Archie smiled.

He had just beat the master at his game.

Point number four to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Gold had underestimated Archie. And he didn't misjudge people very often.

He had known the man was intelligent—if not, Mr. Gold would have bagged him on day one and not sit through three full sessions of psycho-babble already—but today Archie had been positively keen and calculating. It had put Mr. Gold off-balance. Rarely did he feel like he had no control over the direction of a conversation. Rarely did he feel bested. When Archie had entered his office twenty minutes ago, Mr. Gold had been confident that he'd finally be able to wrangle out a positive evaluation from the stammering lad and be done with the whole infernal affair. But instead, he'd played right into Archie's hand and was now set up to teach a roomful of idiots how to spin. How utterly, absolutely, unreservedly delightful, Mr. Gold thought with contempt. What better way to spend his valuable time.

The phone on the desk rang and he picked it up. "Yes, Mrs. Potts?" he barked.

"I have a Mary Margaret on the phone for you. Dr. Hopper mentioned she'd be calling," his secretary said, not put off by his gruffness in the least.

Mr. Gold suppressed a groan. Archie had only left five minutes ago and he was already being hounded by the deal. "Put her through," he said through clenched teeth.

"Is this Mr. Gold?" a woman's voice asked, all happy and flowers and sunny days.

Of course she'd be the cheery sort. Just his luck. "Yes," he said.

"Thank you so much," she gushed. "I just spoke with Archie, and he said that you'd be willing—"

_Willing? _Mr. Gold seized the word with a scowl.

"—to teach our spinning class, and I'm just so, so grateful, and I'm really looking forward to meeting you, and thanking you in person. And I'm sorry there's very little monetary compensation involved, but do you like cookies? I make very good cookies, Mr. Gold, and if you tell me what kind of cookie you—"

"Ms. Blanchard, there will be no need for compensation of any sort, especially of the home-baked variety," he interrupted, kneading his forehead.

"Oh, well aren't you the proper philanthropist," she praised, and he frowned as though she had gravely insulted him. He would need to amend that inaccurate assumption as soon as possible.

Sitting up in his chair and uncapping his pen, he asked, "When will you be needing me?" The sooner he got all the information he needed, the sooner he could get back to work. He'd long since met his quota for the day of putting up with over-flowering sugary toxic amiability.

"We begin next week, and we've scheduled the spinning class to be from 6:00 to 9:00 on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with a break for dinner or whatever between 7:15 to 7:45 or thereabouts," Mary Margaret said. "Mrs. Audley was the one we originally had set up to teach the sessions, and she said she'd need a break in the middle to loosen her joints, bless her soul. And then when she fractured her hip and had to go into the nursing home, I'd thought that—"

"Only the three weeks?" he interrupted again, getting further impatient at the thought of wasting nearly thirty hours of his life, especially since he'd be sitting around for a half hour each time while the daft sheep went out to graze.

_Think of the positive evaluation_, he reminded himself, forcibly checking his temper. _Do this right and Regina won't be able to stop you any more._

"Yes, only the three weeks," she said.

"And how many people will be attending?"

"The spinning class is an optional part of the seminar, but we've already had fourteen sign up which is more than—"

"And how many spinning wheels do you have?" he pressed on.

"Ten, which was stressing the budget already, but I thought some of the attendees could group up, and a few will surely drop out."

Especially with him being the teacher. He'd ensure that only a precious few would survive the full course. For the first time today, he felt a glimmer of anticipation. "And what type of wheels are they?" Mr. Gold asked.

"What type?" she repeated, and he felt his temper rekindling.

"Yes, what type of spinning wheel have you acquired? The Great Wheel? Saxony? Castle?" When she didn't respond right away, he gruffly added, "You don't know, do you."

"Well Mrs. Audley ordered them herself, but I'm not sure what type they are," Mary Margaret said. "I think…I think I remember something about a Disney character. Like Snow White or—"

"Cinderella?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Another name for the Saxony wheel. It is a very common type. And have you already purchased wool?" When she said yes, Mr. Gold continued, "And I'm guessing you don't know what type?"

"No, I'm sorry Mr. Gold."

"Thank you, Ms. Blanchard, for the ever so detailed information you've been able to provide me," he dryly said as he quickly finished writing the details down. "I will not be coming in on the first day. Instead, I will be sending someone to teach the students how to comb and card wool, and about the different types of synthetic fibers commonly used during spinning. I myself purchase already prepped wool and the students will also use prepped wool to save time, but it would be beneficial for them to see the whole process. So unless you have any further information, I will connect you with my secretary to get the details about the location, and I will see you next Wednesday."

"Thank you so much again, Mr.—" Mary Margaret began to say before he transferred the call back to Mrs. Potts and slammed the phone down.

"Bugger the whole blasted affair," he muttered to himself as he made a note for Mrs. Potts to contact the spinner woman who provided him with carded wool and to offer her any amount of money to get her there on Monday to teach. Mrs. Potts would already know to inform the chauffeur about the plans for his transportation and to free up his schedule as needed. And so, with everything finally taken care of, he shuffled it all aside, out of mind, and turned to his work.

He was at the office until ten that night and continued working in the car when the chauffeur picked him up. After they reached his estate, Mr. Gold unlocked the front door and limped into the dark house, take-out from Marcio's in hand.

* * *

"Holy Hannibal, who is Dr. Blanchard talking to?"

Belle turned to see Ruby walking into Dr. Blanchard's office and quickly shushed her.

Settling in next to Belle and straining to hear the voice coming over their professor's cell phone, Ruby whispered in Belle's ear, "I could just lick up that sultry Scottish accent."

"That's just gross, Ruby. Now be quiet," Belle whispered back as she heard Dr. Blanchard trying to describe what type of wheel they had ordered. Belle was about to tell her it was the Saxony before she vaguely heard Mr. Gold say so.

"So who is the face behind the hottie voice?" Ruby pressed.

"It's Mrs. Audley's replacement," Belle said.

"Oh, that's a pity," Ruby said, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Belle asked with surprise. For a small stipend and free enrollment in the seminar, Ruby and Belle had been helping Dr. Blanchard with preparations for the past several months, and when they had heard that Mrs. Audley wouldn't be able to come teach the spinning, they had all been frantic. They had people coming from universities across the United States and even a few from overseas, both to attend and to instruct, and any hitch in the plans threw them into a tizzy. Granted, only a handful were actually going to attend the spinning class, but it had still been a cause for much consternation. So Belle had supposed that Ruby would be jumping for joy at the news. Dr. Blanchard and she surely had after getting Archie's call only a few minutes ago. "We're lucky to have found a replacement with only a few days to spare," Belle said.

"But how many straight men do you know who spin?" Ruby said, and Belle rolled her eyes. So that was her concern. Belle should have guessed. She often wondered how Ruby could be such a successful grad student when she was perpetually chasing after men. They had both just finished their first year of the Medieval and Early Modern Studies grad program at SSU, and Belle had never understood how Ruby could be both a partier and serious student. Belle barely felt able to handle only her schoolwork at times. Then again, Belle's obsession with reading usually prevented much of a social life beyond school.

"First of all, you should know better than to make such an assumption solely based on a man's hobbies," Belle chided. "And second of all, I don't even know any spinners, male or female, and I doubt you know any either, so don't be making any sweeping generalizations about the lot of them."

Ruby just laughed in response.

When Mary Margaret finally finished the phone call, she gave the girls—two of her favorite students—a smile. "It's all settled. We have a teacher for the spinning class."

"That's such good news," Belle said.

"So what does he sound like? Manly, perhaps?" Ruby all too innocently asked, and Belle elbowed her.

"He seems…straightforward," Mary Margaret said after a pause. She actually wasn't entirely sure what she thought about their conversation. Her first thought was that he was impatient, sarcastic, and downright rude, but then her heart kicked in and told her that he must surely have a reason for having been so brusque. Perhaps it had been a bad day at work. Perhaps he wasn't much of a people person. Regardless, she'd still bring him cookies Wednesday. Maybe it would cheer him up.

"How did we find him?" Ruby asked. "And who is he?"

"David's uncle—"

Mary Margaret realized her slip when Ruby tried and failed to suppress a smirk.

"—excuse me, Professor_ Nolan's_ uncle, Dr. Hopper, knows the man," she said, stressing her boyfriend's proper title. He was an instructor in the engineering department, and while it was generally okay for staff to date one another, she still tried to separate her personal life from her professional. "The man's name is Mr. Gold, and as far as I gather from Archie, he is a successful businessman who just happens to also have an interest in spinning and said he'd be willing to teach the class."

"Successful businessman, hmm?" Ruby repeated a little too dreamily for Belle's liking.

"Very, or so Archie seemed to imply, but apart from that, I really don't know anything about the man," Mary Margaret said. "So I guess we'll just have to wait and see on Wednesday."

"What about Monday?" Belle asked.

"He's arranged for someone else to come in to teach about the actual wool or something like that. But what a relief! I thought we'd never find someone!" Mary Margaret stood up and grabbed her purse. "I'm going for a cup of coffee to celebrate. Interested?"

Ruby quickly accepted (she had recently become infatuated with the "deliciously dark handsome barista" who worked late shifts), but Belle gave her excuses. She was halfway through reading _Equus_ for the second time in two days—she didn't know how she had missed reading the play before now—and wanted to finish it before meeting her father at the flower shop. So, gathering her things and agreeing to meet Dr. Blanchard and Ruby Friday morning, tomorrow, at 8:00 to make last minute preparations for the seminar, she made her way to the bus stop and pulled out her book until the bus arrived.

Fortunately, getting Mr. Gold to substitute proved to be the last meltdown-worthy hiccup. Come Monday, the seminar was running as smoothly as could be expected, and Belle loved every one of the lecturers and presentations she'd heard thus far. She'd always been interested in gender studies of the pre-modern era, and several of the instructors Dr. Blanchard had managed to steal were top in their field. She was in graduate heaven. She spent all of her spare time either helping Dr. Blanchard or reading the recommended books and articles, and even Ruby was similarly occupied and let the barista off the hook for a few days. It'd be a crazy three weeks, Belle knew. And she was excited.

Monday's spinning class had also been interesting. While most of the people were anxious to get to the wheels themselves, Belle had enjoyed learning about the different kinds of wool and synthetic fibers that could be spun, and how to prepare them.

When Belle told Ruby, Ruby looked at her with pursed lips over a cup of coffee. "Belle, you like everything," she said, as though that were a bad thing. "I'm more excited for Mr. Hottie-Accent Very Successful Businessman to arrive on Wednesday. Then things will get exciting."

Belle narrowed her eyes. "I would just be wasting my time if I told you to leave the poor man alone, wouldn't I?"

"Ah, Belle, only one year, and we've already come to know each other so well," Ruby said with a twinkle in her eye.

When Wednesday did arrive, Dr. Blanchard caught Belle in the hall at 5:15. She looked a bit frazzled. "Oh, Belle, could you check the room for the spinning class and welcome Mr. Gold when he arrives? I was planning on being there, but Dr. Clark has been sneezing something awful since he's gotten here, and I thought I'd run him over to the store to buy some allergy medicine."

Having sat in front of the sneezy Oxfordian intellectual for two hours that morning and feared that either he would die or she would, having caught whatever was ailing him, Belle immediately agreed. She made her way to the third floor and to the large room across from the teacher's lounge, unlocking it and propping it open. She turned on the lights and saw the ten wooden spinning wheels set up in two long lines. She had been looking forward to this class since Dr. Blanchard had mentioned it many months ago, and was glad that they had found someone to replace Mrs. Johnson so that they wouldn't have to axe it.

She quickly scoured the ground for any garbage, tidied up the chairs, and moved the lecturer's table out of the way since she doubted Mr. Gold would have use for it. Giving the room another once over and leaving the door propped open, she decided to hurry downstairs to her office to grab her things so that she'd be here when Mr. Gold arrived.

As she was clomping down the stairs in her heels, she saw a man coming up. He was impeccably dressed in a black pin-stripped suit, black shirt, and dark gray silk tie knotted on the thicker side. There was a deep violet silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket, and everything about his clothing screamed minute precision and wealth. But while the clothing alone would give Belle pause any day, there were two things that arrested her attention even more strongly. First, his face. He was wearing his hair past his shoulders, hanging over his forehead a bit—longer than Belle would have deemed suitable, but for some reason, it worked. He was a bit on the gaunt side, had a long ever so slightly crooked nose, thin lips pressed together, and eyes that were penetrating but impenetrable. Everything about his face, his demeanor, his clothing demanded attention. And the second thing that pulled Belle to him was his black, gold-handled cane. He was limping up the stairs, taking them one at a time, yet still managing to exude some kind of supremacy. Belle wasn't like Ruby: she didn't fall over someone after a second of seeing them. But something about this man—in this man—made her want to fall, and not, she thought, in a love-at-first-sight, Ruby way.

"Afternoon," she cheerily greeted, managing to remember her manners as they came even. He gave her a curt nod and continued without a word. A little taken aback by the man's abruptness, she continued and had to force herself not to turn around for another glance.

"You look a little flustered," Ruby noted when Belle entered their office. Ruby was reading one of the books on women and weaving, and her long legs were propped up on her desk, bare except for the calf high black boots and red mini-skirt she was wearing. She had red lipstick and jacket to match, and a red streak in her black hair.

"Dr, Blanchard had to run a quick errand so I'll have to welcome Mr. Gold," Belle explained, not meeting Ruby's eyes as she quickly gathered whatever she'd need for the next three hours.

"Really?" Ruby asked, immediately taking her feet off the table and closing the book. She gave a flirty smile, true huntress style. "Can I come with you?"

"Sure," Belle said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Why was she feeling so flustered? Maybe she was just nervous about welcoming Mr. Gold. Ruby leapt up and Belle added, "As long as you behave yourself."

"Me, behave?" Ruby said with mock offense. "Whatever do you mean, Bells?"

Belle grinned, opening the door and calling out as she left, "Meet you up there."

When she made it back to the third floor, she saw the same well-dressed man coming out of the room with the spinning wheels. He set off down the hall away from her, and she called after him. "Excuse me, are you looking for something?"

He stopped and turned around. "No, just checking everything out," he said with a Scottish brogue, and she saw a flash of gold from his mouth when he spoke. His lip curled up in a wan smile. "It is hardly adequate but will suffice." With that, he swiveled back around and continued down the hallway, his cane gently echoing down the hall.

"Wait, are you Mr. Gold?" Belle asked, hurrying forward.

His left hand rose in a sort of goodbye wave as he called over his shoulder, "I promise to be a good boy and be back before the bell rings, dearie."

And then he turned the corner and was gone. Belle stood there for a moment, a little bewildered, before she heard Ruby running up the stairs and stopping next to her.

"So has he arrived yet?" she asked.

"Yes, arrived and then…left," Belle said. Leaving Ruby in the hallway, she went into the room to make sure the man who appeared to be Mr. Gold hadn't messed anything up. Not that he would if he were Mr. Gold, but then maybe he wasn't or…something. Belle shook her head, feeling confused about the whole thing.

"Wait, what?" Ruby asked, following after her. "Is he coming back?"

"I guess so."

"You _guess_ so? What was he like?" she eagerly asked, coming right up to Belle.

Belle bent to pick up a very small piece of paper hiding under a chair leg and taking it to the bin. She thought carefully, choosing the word and only speaking it when she felt like it did indeed capture the man she had just met in the hallway. "Intimidating."

_And layered_, she added to herself. _A mystery to be uncovered_.

Whoa. She had read way too many books, she thought, shaking her head again.

"Intimidating in a good or bad way?" Ruby asked, looking at her closely.

"Just, I don't know, intimidating."

_In a superior, untouchable sort of way, with a reservoir of raw energy controlled with an iron fist_, she thought and then kicked herself again for whatever had come over her. She'd never been so…so like this. She was suddenly very, very keen to see how the man would teach.

"You're blushing," Ruby said, amazement and a touch of amusement crossing her face.

"No, I am not," Belle hastily said, turning away again.

"Yes, you are," she insisted, laughing, and thankfully, someone arrived just then and Belle directed them to a wheel.

After ignoring Ruby's questioning glances for the next half hour, making sure that everyone who arrived was settled in at a wheel, and grouping a few together (she and Ruby would be sharing one as well), she realized she had nothing left to pretend to keep her mind off of the man who—she realized as she checked her watch for the hundredth time—only had two minutes left to arrive.

"Are you sure he's coming back?" Ruby asked as though reading Belle's mind.

"I think so," Belle said. "At least I sure hope so."

_Because if he didn't, I'd feel like I'd let Dr. Blanchard down or because I want to meet the man again?_ she asked herself and then yet again kicked herself. Is this what it was like living in Ruby's mind? Belle would go mad if it was.

Right as the clock on her phone turned to 6:00, the door snapped open and the man with the cane and the impeccable suit and the hair came striding in.

"My name is Mr. Gold," he immediately introduced himself as he walked in, his Scottish accent in full throttle. "And I am as happy to attempt to teach you lot how to spin as I am happy to be here."

Belle's mind stuttered at his flippant sentence, but before she could work it out completely, he continued.

"If anyone is expecting to become a proficient spinner by the end of these three weeks, I advise that you stop wasting my and your own time and leave right now." He stood at the front of the classroom and rested his two hands on top of his cane, staring everyone down. "Three weeks is certainly not enough to become a good spinner. It is not even enough to become a fairly tolerable spinner. It is only enough for a small taste, a small nibble of what it was like for all those impoverished, oppressed women with barely enough shelter and food to live, who labored under the wheel day in and day out with the hopes that they'd get enough to merely survive for tomorrow. So don't expect anything special, and I'll try to do the same. Got it, dearies?"

He paused for any responses, and Belle could feel Ruby's eyes turned towards her in surprise.

"Excellent," Mr. Gold said. "Then let's begin." He turned to the spinning wheel which was at the front of the classroom, and gave the wheel a whorl. Belle stared at it as did everyone else in the room. Mr. Gold, Belle noticed, was looking at it as well, as though caught up by the spell of its mesmerizing movement, and she thought she saw something pass over his face that softened his hard exterior, but it was gone as soon as she'd seen it. He looked up to face the class with his previous flinty expression. "The type of spinning wheel which the school has provided for you—although these models aren't exactly of the best quality—is called a Saxony, based off of a 16th-century design. It is one of the more traditional wheels, and is also called the—"

The door swung open and Ashley Boyd, a blonde-haired second-year grad student who, as rumor had it, was most likely going to have to drop the program at SSU, hurried into the room and to a wheel. Mr. Gold eyed her with what Belle could only term scorn.

"It is also called the Cinderella spinning wheel," he finished his sentence lowly. "But before we go through all the parts, I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear: I am not your babysitter—" he gave his hand a little flourish at the word "—your best buddy, or even your teacher. I am simply here to show you how to spin, and I will treat my role as seriously as you treat yours."

Ashley was still settling in and failed to notice Mr. Gold's heavy stare on her. When she did, Belle saw her cave in with surprise.

"I'm glad we've come to an understanding," Mr. Gold said after holding Ashley's eyes for a moment longer. The poor girl looked like she was going to cry. "So let's begin _again_."

He then proceeded to tell them the names of all the parts, asking everyone to point at the part on their own wheel as he explained what it did. Then, unexpectedly, he'd point at someone and ask them to tell him where the treadle was or the flyer or the orifice, and he'd glare at them until they had accurately pointed it out. Although his approach was decidedly aggressive, Belle quickly realized that it was accomplishing what he wanted and with remarkable speed. Within thirty minutes, everyone knew what every piece was called, where it was located, what its hypothetical function was, how to adjust it if it was an adjustable piece, and how to keep the wheel in good working order. Apparently he wasn't the "study this at home at your leisure" sort of instructor. You either had to learn it on the spot or leave. Belle felt a strange thrill of exhilaration and competition course through her, and she was pleased that she was able to answer correctly the first time each of the questions Mr. Gold directed at her.

"Now the treadle," Mr. Gold said, tucking his cane over his arm and dragging a chair to the wheel at the front of the classroom with his limping gait. He hooked the cane over the chair and sat down. "Everyone, up here. Quick now, we haven't got all night."

The twelve attendees gathered around his wheel, and though he was sitting and everyone was above him, he still managed to usurp every molecule of authority in the air.

Using his left leg—the one which wasn't crippled, Belle realized—he put his foot on the wooden pedal-like treadle at the bottom of the wheel, and started pumping it. The wheel began to whirl about, and Belle couldn't help but feel magnetized by its movement.

As he moved his foot up and down with practiced, graceful ease, he explained, "A lot of beginners think good spinning is about feeding the wool into the orifice. A lot like to jump the gun and see results without mastering the basics. And one of the basics which beginners most fail to develop early on is pumping the treadle correctly. You have to keep it going at a constant speed or else your yarn will come out all uneven and lumpy. So today we'll be spending most of the rest of the evening using only our feet, not our hands and, well, I'd appreciate if no one uses their mouths as well."

Belle gave a small snort of laughter, and Ruby looked at her with shock. No one else apparently thought it was funny either, but Belle refused to blush with embarrassment. It _had_ been funny. Mr. Gold appeared not to notice.

He showed them some tips on how to keep the treadle moving at a constant pace and what else needed to be done, then he sent them back to their own wheels and had them get going. Belle let Ruby go first since they were sharing, and she quickly realized that while Mr. Gold made it look extremely easy, it was a more difficult task than it seemed. As everyone worked at it, Mr. Gold traveled about the room with his cane, knocking people on the leg with it when he was dissatisfied with something they were doing and critiquing them with straightforward candor.

"No, no, no, you're not supposed to be stomping an elephant dead," Mr. Gold told a middle-aged, up-and-coming professor from somewhere Belle couldn't remember now and who was sitting directly in front of Ruby and Belle's wheel. "You're supposed to caress the treadle, like a lover."

"I'm not stomping an elephant," the man said a bit heatedly, and Belle had to suppress another laugh when she noticed that he was indeed slamming his foot down repeatedly with near violence.

"You could have fooled me, now get off my wheel until you can treat her more kindly," Mr. Gold grumbled, yanking the man to his feet and, with a confused look, the man let Mr. Gold throw him to the side with surprising force. Then Mr. Gold looked over to Belle, catching her smile, and she quickly looked down. He took a step toward her, putting both his hands in front of him on his cane, and said, "Why don't you give it a try now, dearie?"

"Oh, um, thank you," Belle said as she stood up and took the man's wheel. Without waiting to see her begin, Mr. Gold wandered off and Belle took a relieved breath.

"The only thing going for him now is his bloody accent, gorgeous hair, striking suit, and millions of dollars," Ruby whispered from behind her. "Otherwise, he's an utter beast."

Belle turned around, saw Ruby's dark expression, and whispered back, "He's not a beast, Ruby."

"Whatever," she said. "But just so you know, I'm no longer interested. You can take him if you want."

"Ruby!" Belle hissed but then quickly turned back around when her voice, louder than she'd realized, attracted Mr. Gold's attention.

Belle, the now grouchy man who Mr. Gold had torn off the wheel, and Ruby all switched back and forth so that each one could have some time at the seat. And Belle, while anything but a natural, was thoroughly enjoying it.

"Take your shoe off," she heard Mr. Gold say behind her at one point, and she started. She had been so engaged in her work that she hadn't even heard him come up.

"Do what?"

"Take your shoe off," he repeated. "While I myself have never tried to spin with heels on, I can't imagine you can work a treadle properly with such a contraption."

Belle laughed before she could stifle it, and a small flash of surprise passed over Mr. Gold's face before he could conceal it. Without saying another word, he quickly swiveled back around and limped his way down the row. Belle hoped she hadn't offended him or something, and nervously turned back to the wheel.

When it was 7:18, three minutes passed the time they were supposed to break for dinner, some brave soul raised their hand and informed Mr. Gold of the time.

"By all means, run off to your suppers, my children," Mr. Gold said with a wave of his hand. And with that dismissal, everyone started to scatter and chatter, making plans.

As they dispersed and as Ruby left to hunt her barista, giving Belle a knowing look before leaving which Belle completely ignored, Belle watched as Mr. Gold sat down at the desk at the front of the room and pulled out a large folder from his briefcase. He uncapped his pen and immediately set to work, the emotionless curtain Belle was beginning to recognize pulling over his face once more.

Feeling as though it was her responsibility until Dr. Blanchard returned to make sure he was taken care of, Belle approached Mr. Gold.

"Yes?" he asked without looking up.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" she asked, suddenly very anxious. "There's a teacher's lounge across the hallway which you are more than welcome to use if you—"

"No, I am quite fine, dearie, thank you," he said, brushing her to the side with barely an upward glance.

"Any time," Belle said, crossing over to her bag, taking out one of her textbooks, and going to the lounge to make a pot of tea for herself. Before she left, though, she paused and turned back. "You're actually a very good teacher, Mr. Gold. Different, but good," she said, and before waiting for his response, she quickly turned back around and left.

And unbeknownst to her, Mr. Gold watched her every movement as she fled the room.

[btw – I DO NOT OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. Obviously. Because if I did, I'd be much wealthier and have soupy lunch with Mr. Carlyle on a regular basis.]


	3. Chapter 3

People didn't usually smile at Mr. Gold. They didn't say hello to him on the stairs. They didn't laugh at his quips. Or compliment his teaching. Or offer him tea—at least not anyone who wasn't paid to. So who was this brown-curled, sapphire-eyed, high-heeled, classily dressed young lady with a smile that filled her face and entire being and then rippled out around her like a slap to his cheek? How dared she bestow kindness on the beast?

Waiting for the thirty-minute break to end, Mr. Gold tried to concentrate on the contract he was writing up, but the wee Aussie lass kept ghosting back to his mind.

_The undersigned parties hereby agree to the following provisions_, he was writing, _effective the third of June, 2013_…

Yes, she was definitely an expatriate. An Aussie. He had immediately caught her Australian accent when she'd first spoken to him in the hallway. It was faint, so he assumed she'd been living in the States for some time now, but it had adorned her every soft word. She was from as far down South as Scotland was up North…

Not that that mattered. Not that anything here at SSU mattered, he thought with clenched teeth as his distracted brain blatantly misspelled a word. The only thing that mattered was getting this bloody contract done.

…_that a separate capital account will be maintained for each Partner and…_

He assumed she was a student. And trustworthy, since Ms. Blanchard appeared to have asked her to make sure everything went smoothly tonight in her absence. He'd been surprised that Ms. Blanchard hadn't been here herself, but at least that meant he'd be spared her overabundant sociability. A spoonful of Ms. Blanchard right about now would surely throw him off the edge.

But a spoonful of the Aussie's company over a cup of tea in the room across the hall…

He gripped his pen.

…_Each Partner's shares in the Partnership_, he started to write again,_ shall be determined by…by…_

And why was the Aussie even plaguing his thoughts? Yes, she was a bonny lass—a _very_ bonny lass with a round face and long waves of fine brown hair and startlingly blue eyes—but he lived in a world of pretty faces over which he could care less and, in actuality, hadn't cared much at all since Melinda. He was absolutely not the sort to fantasize over a woman after only two hours of acquaintance, much less a female who was probably more than two decades his junior.

No, it wasn't that at all. She was just…different. She didn't treat him like most other people did who first met him, and he'd even taken particular care to pull out every brusque, surly, snippy weapon in his arsenal since walking into the room an hour and a half ago. He could tell she was, at least in part, intimidated like everyone else always was—he had caught her jump when he'd come up behind her and told her to take off her shoe—but it didn't seem to affect her like it did others. Heck, she'd even complimented his teaching.

But the most perplexing moment had been when he had dimly overheard the dark-haired, scantily clad girl calling him a beast (proof that he was indeed doing something right in this class) and the Aussie girl had defended him. She was certainly incorrect—he _was_ a beast—but he hadn't known what to think of her assessment. First impressions, he thought with a grimace, were just that: faulty, flawed, hasty notions with little ground to support them. She'd learn. And then see if she kept on smiling.

Why, then, did the thought that she'd stop give him a sudden jolt to the gut?

…_at twenty per cent…_

Had it really been that long since anyone had truly smiled at him who wasn't irritating or looking for something or uninformed? Some people forced smiles because they thought it'd help with their deals or give them a lift into his bank accounts (both of which were the extreme of folly). Regina pulled wicked smiles out of her dark soul whenever she felt she had the upper hand over him (which, usually, she never did). Archie smiled because he thought he could change him (the fool). Some were gifted with unnatural patience and kindness, and smiled at everyone and everything (the Ms. Blanchard type, he assumed, and the most irritating of the lot, but thankfully even their eternal sunshine usually cowered in his cloudy presence). And his secretary Mrs. Potts smiled because, well, she was Mrs. Potts. She'd always been like that. In fact, that'd been one reason why he'd hired her four years back to begin with—that and her tea. She accepted his gruffness and threw her own sweetened, British gruffness right back at him. She had intrigued him. And now the Aussie was doing the same. Just wait until Regina got the memo: the notorious Mr. Gold's kryptonite came in the form of females with accents and smiles.

He looked down at the contract and realized he'd written the amount wrong two lines previously. It was supposed to be "fifteen" per cent, not "twenty."

Sighing, he capped his pen, tossed it aside, and stood up, pain flashing through his knee. He winced but reached for his cane and headed for the door. Maybe a cuppa wasn't such a bad idea after all. But, of course, he was only going for the tea. Not for the company. Only a quick cup of tea to keep him going through the remainder of the evening. It had nothing to do with the Aussie in the lounge who'd invited him to join her. Absolutely not.

Or so he told himself repeatedly.

He limped into the hallway and caught a light coming from a room to the left, streaming through a small window on the door. He made his way over then paused outside when he caught sight of the girl sitting and reading at the table.

She had one hand up over her forehead, trying to keep her long wavy hair back, and the other cupped around her neck as she was bent forward and devouring the words on the page, her tea completely forgotten. There was a hint of a smile gracing her lips and face, an intelligent gleam in her eyes, and judging by the level of her interest, Mr. Gold would have surmised she were reading a popular thriller instead of what clearly looked like a textbook of sorts. He didn't move a muscle. The sight was…beautiful. The word came unbidden to his mind, and it stuck insistently.

And that would, of course, be the time when Ms. Blanchard finally decided to make her debut and break the moment. No, she _shattered_ it with all of her full-throttle and, dear Almighty, please-throttle-me-now cheer.

"You must be Mr. Gold!" she cried, and he caught the Aussie's eyes swing up and meet his through the window. But before he could read her reaction, he quickly turned away and stepped toward Ms. Blanchard, cursing his stupidity. The girl would probably think he was a creepy old peeper. And he certainly was acting like one. What had gotten into him?

"Ms. Blanchard, I presume," he said through clenched teeth, trying to force down the full brunt of his animosity. He was only minutely successful, but the good Ms. Blanchard didn't seem to notice or care.

"I am so, so sorry for being late, Mr. Gold!" she said, rushing forward to shake his hand with an ear-to-ear and eye-to-eye smile.

He accepted her hand with a barely concealed grimace, and glanced behind him to check that the lounge door was still closed. It was.

"One of our attendees, Dr. Clark, the poor soul, has been suffering from these terrible allergies," Ms. Blanchard started to explain, and she continued talking but Mr. Gold tuned her out as he quickly looked her over.

She was, indeed, sweetness embodied. She was wearing a knee-length blue skirt and a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, giving her a bit of an old-fashioned and nun-like vibe. But then, in contrast, her black hair was cut short, almost boyishly styled, she wore a tasteful though evident amount of make-up, and her skin was white as snow. She was quite attractive, one side of Mr. Gold admitted, but his other, more dominant side felt that everything about her grated against his nerves. Of course part of that could be that she and her spinning class were the bane of his existence at the moment, and the one interesting thing he'd found thus far had been taken away from him by her untimely arrival.

Weary of listening about the poor unfortunate Dr. Clark and his endless ailments, Mr. Gold finally interrupted her. "I understand your concern, but your presence was not and is not necessary, Ms. Blanchard," he said, infusing his words with just the right tinge of hostility to subtly encourage her removal. She either missed it or ignored it because she beamed instead.

"Oh, of course. Now I won't actually be attending the classes, unfortunately—too busy with the seminar and everything—but I'm sure you'll do a superb job, Mr. Gold. Archie sure had great things to say about you."

He doubted that.

"And as a thank you," she continued, her smile—if possible—widening even further into levels of sugary sweetness hitherto unencountered by Mr. Gold, "I made you cookies, as promised!"

The way she said it and offered up to him a plate of perfectly circular cookies of three different varieties (he wouldn't be surprised if she'd cut them out with a metal ring), Mr. Gold imagined that the woman expected to be praised for being such a good girl. He also noticed an envelope on top with his name written in swirly script and which surely included an intolerably gushy, multi-paragraphed thank you card. He wouldn't put it past her to have written it in sonnet form. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as though she'd just confessed to having leprosy.

"I wasn't sure what kind you liked, so I made you snickerdoodle, chocolate chip, and, um, well these ones are white chocolate macadamia." Her cheery voice trailed off at the end when she noticed his apathetic face.

"Perhaps the children will enjoy them for dessert after they return to the fold in—" he checked his watch "—eight minutes."

And without another word, he walked past the surprised woman and rounded the corner. He hoped that his impoliteness would be enough to turn Ms. Blanchard off of any further attempts at amicability in the future. He wasn't sure he'd survive three weeks if it didn't.

He hid in a corner of an empty hallway for the next seven minutes, and when there was only a half minute left before 7:45 when everyone was supposed to be back, he made his way back to the classroom. When he was still one corner away, he heard a ruckus from the stairs and looked around to see two of the older students scrambling up the steps.

"We better not be late!" one huffed. "He'd probably skin us alive!"

Mr. Gold was pleased that already, so soon, the students and he had come to an understanding with one another.

"Then he'd eat us raw!" the other, particularly out-of-breath student said.

"And then devour our children!" the first said. They started to giggle, but when they saw Mr. Gold standing at the top of the stairs, they stopped in their tracks, faces a picture of dread.

"Oh no, not all of your children," he said, keeping his face a mask of cool indifference. Then, lowering his voice and leaning forward a bit, he added, "Only your firstborn." He waved toward the open classroom, and the two young women raced inside. And it was only then that he noticed the Aussie standing at the end of the hallway.

"Only the firstborn, eh?" she asked as she was clearly trying to hide a smile. Her lips were pursed with amusement. Thankfully, it appeared that she hadn't thought he was a crazy pervert after all.

"I have a figure to maintain, dearie," he said with mock indignation, vaguely gesturing to his wiry frame even as he wondered why he was playing along. She giggled and slipped past him into the room. He stood there for a moment, realizing that he was now going to be a half minute late but again feeling the Aussie yank his mind in unfamiliar directions. Then he gripped his cane more tightly and limped into the room.

A surprisingly large number of people had returned on time (he must have indeed made some sort of impression), and as soon as he swept in, he immediately ordered everyone to keep practicing the treadle for another ten to fifteen minutes before they moved on to the next step. Whenever someone did arrive late, he'd fix them with his harshest glare and then purposefully stand behind them for the first full minute of their return, making them sweat for a bit before he'd move on. Hopefully by Friday he'd have all his ducklings in a row. Or scare them off. Or roast them. Tempting, oh so tempting.

After wandering around and making last-minute corrections to their treadling, he realized that he'd been unconsciously avoiding the far right side of the room where the Aussie was set up. How idiotic was that. This was his classroom and he wasn't going to let a blue-eyed lass scare him off. So he drifted over, making suggestions along the way and finally stopping behind the girl.

"It appears our elephant stomper has moved on to greener pastures," he said, referring to the fact that the middle-aged gentleman who'd been pounding on his spinning wheel earlier hadn't returned after the break. Mr. Gold hadn't been able to suppress a smile of satisfaction that he'd already scared someone off.

The girl looked up with yet another smile and teasing eye, and said, "The Animal Humane Society will be pleased. Don't you think?"

His lips twitched, and he quickly moved on, catching the Aussie's black-haired companion scowling at him.

Twice now—_twice_—she'd not only smiled at his quip, but returned one of her own. And what was with his sudden desire to lay bare his wit to her every time he saw her, to hear her laugh and see her smile?

"Everyone up front. Now," he suddenly barked, jerking himself to his senses. Once they had all gathered round the spinning wheel up front, he demonstrated to the class how to begin feeding the wool through the orifice, carefully ignoring the one pair of eyes he felt the most. After that, he had everyone break into pairs where one would work the treadle while the other practiced putting the wool through. It was too much to throw both of the skills together all at once, and he'd consider himself a master of masters if any one of them managed to do both by the end of the three weeks with any degree of proficiency.

He continued wandering about for the next hour, berating his ducklings and, once again, avoiding the Aussie and her scowling friend. And as soon as it turned to 9:00 on the dot, he left without a single word to the class. He'd done what Dr. Hopper had told him to do. Socializing and being nice had never been stipulations to their deal, and Mr. Gold surely wouldn't be the first to break it.

He managed to descend the stairs and leave the building in his limping gait without meeting anyone, and found his chauffeur idling at the curb. He got in, told his driver to swing by Mac's Steak and Seafood on the way home for take-out, and pulled out his work.

And shuffled the pages.

And straightened them.

And shifted in his seat.

And, like before, couldn't seem to bring up his usual optimum focus.

He grimaced. He'd never been like this.

After another ten minutes of attempting and failing to get much done, he threw his work aside and pulled out his iPhone.

If the Aussie were a student as he assumed, she'd certainly be a graduate student. (He googled SSU and selected their homepage.) And if Ms. Blanchard knew her, she was most likely a graduate student at SSU. (He found the history department's website.) And if she were a graduate student, she'd probably be an assistant teacher and would have a picture on the website. (He clicked on the link for "graduate students.") He scrolled down and halfway through the page, he froze. There she was in all her blue-eyed, brown-haired grandeur. And in a blue shirt which made her eyes jump out even more strikingly if that were possible. He looked to the side and saw that she'd just finished her first year of the Medieval and Early Modern Studies program. And he saw her name.

Belle French.

_Belle. _

How fitting.

The Aussie's name was "Beautiful."

* * *

When Mrs. Potts got to the office at 7:58 Thursday morning, she dropped off her purse and suit jacket, turned on the computer to let it boot, and bustled off to the small office kitchen to prepare Mr. Gold his tea. It was her one daily offering which he never complained about, and he even went so far as to give her a nod of approval each morning he took his first sip in her presence. That was as close to a "thanks" he'd ever come, but she noted it all the same.

She assumed that her ability to make a good, strong, English pot of tea was a substantial reason why he'd hired her in the first place and then kept her on unlike the string of secretaries he'd had before her. When Mrs. Potts had first arrived, there had been a running bet at Mills and Associates on how quickly the "beast"—as he was known behind carefully closed office doors—would run off his newest secretary. Apparently Mr. Gold's record fire had been a bigwig secretary from New York City who had arrived at 8:00 then promptly left, jobless, by 8:07. Everyone assumed that the unlikely Mrs. Potts, who had recently been laid off as a school secretary after two decades of work due to stringent budget cuts, would be axed even more quickly.

And Mrs. Potts had nearly met their expectations. On her first day at work, she had taken the elevator and when it had opened on _his_ floor (no one dared deny that he _owned_ the entire fourteenth floor of Mills and Associates' fifteen-story building), she'd seen Mr. Gold waiting right outside the elevator, glaring at her, both hands resting in front of him on his cane. He'd been the picture of authority. And displeasure. She had quickly glanced at the clock on the wall to see it was 8:11, eleven minutes past when he had told her to arrive.

"Don't bother getting off, dearie," he had said as soon as the doors had opened. "You're fired."

"Hello to you too, Mr. Gold," she had replied, refusing to be intimidated by his show. And then she'd made her way around him and headed for the kitchen, shopping bags in tow, before he could say anything else. So he'd followed her. He'd had no other choice.

"Must I call security?" he'd growled.

"You're not firing me," she'd said, unpacking the tea leaves and other assorted tea condiments.

"Oh, I'm not, am I?" There was a dangerous flint to his voice.

"No, you are not," she'd replied, matter of factly. "I arrived early at 7:00 this morning, saw the horrendous state of your tea storage, and decided to immediately rectify the situation." She'd looked up at him with an equally steely glare. "So you can't fire me for tardiness, and I've done nothing else wrong." Turning back around, she'd started filling the tea pot with water and said, "Give me a few minutes, and I'll bring you your tea to your office."

He'd fixed her with an unwavering stare that carefully masked his surprise, and then he'd limped away. Again, he'd had no other choice. She'd been with him now for four years—the longest of any secretary prior to her by two full years—and the workforce of Mills and Associates had long since given up their bets. Many a man had lost good money because of Mrs. Potts, and she was quite smug about the whole affair.

Once she reached the kitchen, she flipped on the light and pulled out the tea set she used every morning for the office. It was a lovely though simple Shelley, one of his Deco sets from the 1920s, that was probably worth more than one of her paychecks, if not a couple. While waiting for the water to boil, she popped back to her desk to pull out the files Mr. Gold had asked her to prepare for the morning, and it was then, as she was returning to the kitchen, that she finally realized.

Mr. Gold wasn't in yet.

When not scheduled elsewhere, he was almost always there long before Mrs. Potts arrived, rain or shine. She couldn't even remember the last time he hadn't been here and already in the thick of work by eight every morning. And it was already 8:07. Before she had much time to wonder, though, the elevator down the hall dinged and the man himself limped into sight.

"I want the Hopkins file on my desk immediately," he said in his usual gruff manner, walking past her without a glance. Then he went into his office and slammed the door behind him.

_Bad day_, Mrs. Potts immediately assessed as she returned to the kitchen. She would make the tea extra strong for today.

A short time later, she knocked at Mr. Gold's door with the file he had mentioned and a cup of tea in hand. At his order, she entered.

"Took your time, did you dearie?" he muttered without looking up from his papers.

_Yup, definitely bad day_.

"Thought you'd need this to slake that fire of yours," she said, setting the tea in front of him. He looked at the cup with a lingering eye, and something passed over his face which she couldn't place before it quickly disappeared.

"I don't wish to be bothered this morning—no phone calls, no visitors," he said, opening the file and leaving the cup be without taking his usual test sip.

"And how was your spinning class last night?" Mrs. Potts dared ask with an even more daring twinkle in her eye and voice. She didn't know how Dr. Hopper had managed to force Mr. Gold to do it, and she was pleased. The man needed to see what normal human beings were like.

He eyed her briefly with one of his most withering looks. "Especially Regina. If she calls or comes, tell her I'm busy," he said, blatantly ignoring her question and signaling a definite close to the conversation.

"That good, eh?" Mrs. Potts said as she left.

When she came back two hours later to deliver another file he asked for, she noticed that his cup of tea was still sitting there. Untouched.

_How very odd_, she thought. _How very, very odd._

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, I'd sneak onto the set at night and try on everyone's costumes. Especially the Evil Queen's. And Rum's. **btw#2** – I must apologize for an error in the last chapter: the woman Mr. Gold is replacing is Mrs. Audley, not Mrs. Johnson (a fossil of the character's original name which I forgot to replace at the end of the chapter). **btw#3** – Eleanor Audley is the name of the actress who does the voice-over for Malificent in Disney's Sleeping Beauty. I thought that'd be fitting since they both use spinning wheels, though our Mrs. Audley is anything but a dragon-witch. Just a poor old woman with a fractured hip in a hospital of whom I know nothing more. She probably has a cat. And is rather rotund. **last-btw – **Thanks for all the reviews, and a special thanks to the formidably named Anti-Kryptonite.]


	4. Chapter 4

There was less than an hour left before Friday's spinning class. An hour left before Belle would see the enigmatic Mr. Gold again. And she was strangely ill at ease as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

"Don't you look nice today. Whomever are you trying to impress, Bells?"

Belle started and saw Ruby leaning against the girl's bathroom door, arms crossed, smile spread wide with the plethora of wicked whims that crowded into that brain of hers.

"Oh please, Ruby," Belle said, turning on the water to wash her hands.

"You've reapplied your makeup, and you only ever wear that dress on special occasions," Ruby persisted.

Ruby had a point. Belle had indeed reapplied her light makeup (something she didn't often do—she hated wasting any more time with the stuff than needed), and she was wearing her favorite deep blue dress. It had a very simple design, but she'd always liked how it brought out the color of her eyes. It made her think of her mother whose eyes had been even more crystal blue than Belle's were. Her mother had been a remarkably beautiful woman, far more beautiful than Belle.

"I'm wearing this dress because I like it," Belle insisted, avoiding Ruby's dancing eyes as she dried her hands. "Not because I'm trying to impress Mr. Go—" she quickly broke off "—anyone special."

Ruby's smile widened like a predator who'd found its prey. "Mr. Gold?" she repeated with mock astonishment. "Whatever can you mean?"

"Goodbye, Ruby," Belle said firmly, slipping past a laughing Ruby and out of the bathroom.

Because of whatever twisted world she lived in, Ruby had become convinced that Belle liked Mr. Gold and—even more preposterous—that Mr. Gold liked her. Belle had to admit that she found the man alluring and complex and striking and intimidating and confusing and (truth be told) attractive, but that was it. There was nothing more. How could there be? And the thought that Mr. Gold was interested in her? It was downright laughable.

But there had been moments on Wednesday…

When Belle had gone to the lounge to drink her tea and read her book, she had heard Dr. Blanchard cry out Mr. Gold's name and had looked up to see none other than the man himself looking in at her through the door's window. Their eyes had met, and Belle had felt a shiver run over her arms. Then Mr. Gold had torn himself away, and Belle had been grateful he'd not seen the deep blush that had sprouted over her cheeks.

She still didn't know what to think about the event. How long had he been standing there? Belle had been so engrossed in her book that she hadn't felt the phantom signs of someone's gaze. Maybe he'd only just arrived to get some tea before class started again and hadn't actually been watching her at all. Yes, surely Dr. Blanchard had caught him right before he would have entered. That was the only explanation, because why ever would the man watch _her_?

Then again, something in the way his coffee brown eyes had held hers with such intensity for the briefest of moments made her think that he had come for more than tea…

Belle violently shook her head and started stuffing books into her bag for the weekend. Now she was just being foolish. Of course he hadn't come to the lounge for her. How could he ever be interested in someone's company who was as boring and young as she was?

But his gaze…

Belle's flush deepened, and she vigorously zipped up her bag.

With nothing else to do now, Belle sat down at her desk. Pulled down a book from her shelf. Turned the pages. And couldn't help but think about the rest of Wednesday evening.

They had traded quips twice—first about firstborns, second about the "elephant-stomper"—and she was still astonished at her daring teasing that night. And even more astonished that he'd played along. After the second time, she'd seen his lips twitch as though he would smile, but then he'd swiftly turned about and left, leaving her to wonder what a smile on Mr. Gold's face would look like.

And then had come the beginning to Ruby's love-inquisition.

"He was flirting with you!" Ruby had whispered from behind her as soon as Mr. Gold had walked away. Belle had looked around to where Ruby was sitting and seen a strange, mixed expression of anger, surprise, and excitement on her face.

"No he wasn't!" Belle had said, more loudly than she'd intended.

"You're right. The beast probably doesn't know how to flirt," Ruby had whispered back. But then she'd smiled mischievously. "But if he wasn't, you were."

"Ruby, that's ridiculous!" Belle had furiously whispered, flipping back around to avoid her friend's scrutiny.

"I've never seen you like this, Bells," Ruby had said to Belle's back. "And I must say, I think you're crazy. He's probably a vampire who sucks blood by night and spins human hair by day."

"Ruby!" Belle had hissed warningly, but thankfully, before Ruby could have spouted any more wisdom from her demented mind, Mr. Gold had called everyone up to the front to demonstrate the next step.

And, oh, how Belle had loved watching him, though she'd never admit it to Ruby. Or herself. Mr. Gold had given the wheel an expert whirl and started to work the treadle, and Belle had been caught by the fluidity of his motion. Then he'd explained to them how to keep one hand up near the flyer to feed the wool into the orifice and to keep the other further back to smooth out the sheep's triangle (as it was called) caused by the combed wool bunching together, and she'd watched those clever hands of his, working so expertly, so swiftly yet smoothly. She believed she could fall asleep to that, watching the wheel spinning round and round, the flyer rotating even more quickly, his long nimble fingers, listening to the low whir of the wheel and that low Scottish brogue…

But the thing she'd most loved about watching him was seeing the change that seemed to fall over him as he worked. Perhaps she'd been imagining things (which, at this point, she wouldn't be surprised at all if she were indeed suffering from some case of delirium), but his eyes had lost their flint and turned distant, his face had become pensive, his voice softer. At that moment, she'd been unable to completely reconcile the barking man with his bite of sheer intimidation and derision, with this spinning man.

That was the moment, she could say with certainty, when she'd decided Mr. Gold was more than he seemed, and that she wanted to get to know the spinning man within him.

But then he had never once come near Belle for the rest of the evening and when it had reached 9:00 on the dot, he'd disappeared. One second he'd been there, the next he'd gone. After a minute, Aurora had finally, timidly asked, "So does that mean we can go?"

Then by early Thursday morning, Mr. Gold's reputation had already begun to spread. While waiting for classes to begin, attendees of the spinning class would idly chat about the crippled beast in black Armani armor and his torture chamber on the third floor. Belle roundly ignored every one, finding that defending Mr. Gold had only amused people further. But Belle couldn't help her smug satisfaction when Dr. Blanchard said that a few people had come up to her and asked if there was still a chance to enroll in the extra class.

And now Mr. Gold's second session was beginning in—she checked her watch—less than thirty minutes.

Unable to distract her mind with her book, she went up to the room early and began practicing what he'd taught them Wednesday. But before she even got to the wool part, she just sat there and watched the wheel spin as she pumped the treadle up and down. It was mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, in fact, that she didn't hear the cane in the hallway signaling his arrival until she happened to look up and see him standing in the doorway.

She smiled. She couldn't help it. "I'm practicing," she said, gesturing to the wheel which was gradually slowing to a halt.

"Yes," Mr. Gold simply said, giving her a stiff nod then continuing past the room without another word.

Belle stared at the empty doorframe and would have kept staring but Ruby came dancing in with a pie in hand. Belle cleared her throat and pretended as though nothing had happened.

"Apparently your boyfriend—"

"Ruby!" Belle said, throwing her a look.

"—doesn't like cookies, so Dr. Blanchard told me to give him this." Ruby held up a beautiful, latticed peach pie and sniffed it, pulling a face. "Last I heard, vampires don't like fruit, so I doubt this will be much more successful an offering."

Belle held her tongue and stood up to begin straightening the room.

"Maybe I should tell Dr. Blanchard about Aurora and Ashley's discovery that he likes munching on little children," Ruby continued. "Maybe a good meringue _cum infantulis_ would be more appealing for your millionaire."

Belle could tell Ruby was just looking for a reaction now, so Belle, again, held her tongue. Ruby smirked.

As it got closer to 6:00, Belle noticed that everyone had already arrived, no doubt hoping not to attract Mr. Gold's attention by coming in late. She was also pleasantly surprised that everyone, except for the elephant stomper and Ashley Boyd, had returned and on a Friday night to boot. Apparently they, like Belle, had realized that although the man was gruff, he clearly knew what he was doing. At 6:00 sharp, Mr. Gold himself came limping in, and every eye immediately focused on him (like Belle assumed happened in any room he entered).

"Up front," he barked before he'd even reached the front himself, and as everyone gathered round his wheel, he hooked his cane on the back of the chair and lowered himself down. He then proceeded to show everyone once again how to do the wool part which Belle was grateful for because she'd never quite gotten the hang of it on Wednesday and had forgotten some of his tips since then. She also, like before, loved watching him work. But today, there was something vaguely restless in his movement. It was still smooth, still expertly demonstrated, but it felt a bit off to Belle for some reason. She was probably imagining things, but he didn't seem as relaxed as he did on Wednesday when he'd spun.

Finding her mind straying, she forced her observations aside and focused on his explanations.

After demonstrating, he pointed at Ruby and Gustav (a student visiting from UCLA). "You and you," he said, standing up and gesturing to the wheel. "Drag a bench on over and show us what you can do."

Mr. Gold's secretary had called Dr. Blanchard early Thursday and had said that Mr. Gold wanted benches instead of chairs for the classroom since they were doing so much team spinning. So, after some finagling with the music department, Dr. Blanchard, Professor Nolan, Ruby, and Belle had spent an hour yesterday afternoon dragging piano benches from the fine arts building and up to the third-floor spinning classroom. They were now stacked in a corner, and Gustav quickly brought one over.

"Well?" Mr. Gold asked when Gustav sat down but Ruby hesitated.

Ruby shot him a look, but she stiffly sat next to Gustav and took the treadle while Gustav did the wool. Mr. Gold spent a few minutes showing the class what the two were doing wrong and fixing their errors, completely ignoring the growing ice in Ruby's black eyes, before calling on two other people and then two others after that. While Belle knew that she herself would hate to be called on and make mistakes in front of everyone, after the third couple she realized just how beneficial it was to watch him make corrections publicly and to see the ones in the limelight desperately fix them on the spot. When she looked around, she also saw others nodding with comprehension as Mr. Gold pointed out someone's flaw, and she added two more items to Mr. Gold's untraditional though effective teaching strategy: teaching by mortification and by example.

After that, he sent everyone off to the wheels with benches, and Belle again paired up with Ruby who was still tense from what Mr. Gold had done to her.

"I was wrong, he's not a vampire," she muttered as Belle started the treadle and she the wool. "I don't think he ever had a soul to begin with."

"I thought what he did was quite instructive," Belle whispered.

"Of course you would," Ruby whispered back. "You're both madly in love."

"Ruby, how did we ever become friends?" Belle sighed, knowing that it'd be pointless to try and convince Ruby that she and Mr. Gold were absolutely _not_ in love.

"Because I'm such an amazing, endearing, perfect person. Unlike him." Ruby nodded in Mr. Gold's direction then muttered, "I'd like to give him some instruction on how to act like a human being. I don't know what you see in him."

Belle said nothing.

After a few minutes of practice, she was feeling much more confident about the treadle. But with greater familiarity came greater freedom to look about, and she kicked herself for the number of times she caught herself throwing quick glances in Mr. Gold's direction. He prowled through the rows of spinning wheels like a panther—all black-suited, menacing, and strangely graceful even with his limp.

Never once, though, did he stray near Belle and Ruby.

When 7:15 rolled around, everyone dispersed for their break, and Ruby shoved Dr. Blanchard's pie into Belle's hands, saying something about the "deliciously dark handsome barista" across the street who needed her and running off before Belle could say no. But of course her haste wasn't dire enough to stop Ruby from giving Belle a nice, rounded smirk before disappearing around the corner.

Feeling suddenly nervous like on Wednesday, Belle grabbed a book from her bag and approached the desk where Mr. Gold had already started on some paperwork. His brown, gray-streaked hair was hanging over his face.

"Yes, dearie?" he asked. Like Wednesday, he didn't look up.

"Dr. Blanchard made you a pie," Belle said, setting it on the desk. "I think it's meant as a thank you."

"She does seem the sort," he said. Still cold. Like he had been all night to her.

_Well, there we have it: Ruby was wrong and I was right_, Belle thought, fighting to keep her smile. Why did she suddenly feel so deflated? It wasn't like she'd actually thought…actually felt…

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Gold?" she asked, now just trying to be nice.

He glanced up briefly then returned to his work. "No, I am quite fine," he said. Same as Wednesday.

"If you change your mind, I'm just across the hall—or the tea is—well I am, too, but…" Belle broke off, flushing for sounding like such an idiot. She started again. "There's tea in the lounge across the hall if you're interested."

Then she turned and left.

Mr. Gold gripped his pen but, unlike Wednesday, didn't watch her depart.

* * *

The Aussie—_Belle_—was killing him. When he had finally gotten his concentration under control again and thought he could manage seeing her today without falling into the same lapse he'd fallen into on Wednesday, why did she have to wear that dress, smile those smiles, and offer those offers?

Wednesday night, after the spinning class, he'd been unable to shake the girl from his thoughts. And it wasn't just Belle who'd haunted him that night; it was everything that came with her. Thoughts about his son. His ex-wife Melinda. Cora. His work, day in and day out, destroying lives. Reminders that trust was impossible, foolish. That he wasn't fit to be loved, no matter of what sort of love it was. Not friendship. Or romance. Or familial love.

No one could ever, ever love him, the beast.

Finally, unable to work or sleep, he had turned to his wheel for solace in the wee early morning hours of Thursday. He'd spun. And spun. Forgot and forgot some more. And at some point during his spinning, he'd moved to the couch and fallen asleep, not waking up until after 7:00, an hour later than usual. His leg had been stiffer than it had been in months and he'd been absurdly late to the office (he'd thought Mrs. Potts would die from the shock), but at least he'd finally been able to function. At least he'd finally pushed down all of those distracting thoughts.

But only one look at the girl through the doorway before class started and he'd unraveled again. She'd looked up at him and smiled. He hadn't even fully caught what she'd said. He'd just seen the way her blue dress had made her eyes bluer than a crystal lake. He'd only seen that smile, given so freely to him. So wrongly. So he'd fled, muttering something out and continuing down the hallway.

No quips today.

Then when she invited him for tea again, he pushed her away and forced himself not to watch her leave. He had work to complete and lots of it. His lapse of concentration Wednesday and the time spent here at SSU were setting him back, and he'd had to work until past midnight on Thursday and get to the office before 7:00 this morning to get caught up. Next week with three sessions would be even more difficult to manage. He'd be beyond pleased once this spinning class ended.

But then, of course, he'd no longer have her smiles…

He grimaced and pushed himself even harder to complete the contract he was reading over before his ducklings returned at 7:45. When there were only five minutes left, he put his papers away, not wishing to leave them out for prying eyes, and finally glanced at Ms. Blanchard's newest thank you. It was an exquisitely crafted peach pie with a lattice top whose strips must have been cut with a ruler, they were so even. And on top was the same thank you card from before with a small, yellow sticky note. It was addressed to the "Master Spinner" and read, "If not cookies, perhaps pie? Thanks again!"

_First-name basis, huh?_ Mr. Gold glumly thought when he read that she'd signed it "Mary Margaret."

As soon as everyone had returned, Mr. Gold got up with his cane, picked up the pie in one hand, and dropped it on the nearest bench with a loud clatter (it was a pity the glass didn't break, a disgruntled part of Mr. Gold thought). The girl who was sitting there jumped.

"Enjoy," he said through clenched teeth, giving her a glare as though everything had been her fault, and she looked back at him with wide-eyed surprise and fear. "Now get back to work," he growled to the rest.

For the remainder of the class, he continued to physically avoid the Aussie and her dark-haired partner, but he couldn't seem to mentally push her away. He ground his teeth. He gripped his cane. He attacked someone's technique with a sharp tongue. But she wouldn't leave his thoughts. She clung like cobwebs which, if someone tries to pull them off, they just stick to the fingers. And he couldn't stop himself from stealing little glimpses. Just to assure himself that her brunette hair did indeed shine in the light, and her pretty blue dress did throw more color in her eyes, if that were possible, and her face did lighten up as she chatted with her partner. Everything was light about her.

Everything was dark about him.

And it was only too true that light and dark never mixed well.

But when there were only three minutes left of class, he could no longer hold himself back. Slowly making his way over, he stopped behind them and watched as the Aussie—_Belle_—held the wool in her small hands. Her right hand, though, was too far back and not pinching the thread like it ought. So without thinking, Mr. Gold leaned over her shoulder, placed his hand over hers, and gently shifted it forward.

"Closer to the orifice, dearie," he said in a low voice.

Her skin was soft.

"Now pinch it—yes, like that."

And warm.

"Keep smoothing out the shepherd's triangle with your left hand," he continued. "A bit more…more…yes."

Her soft cheek, only inches from his own, was flushed.

"Like—like this?" she asked when he said nothing more, and he realized that his hand was still lightly resting on hers.

"Yes," he said, quickly pulling away and straightening. "Much better."

She looked up at him and smiled. "Thank you," she said.

He cleared his throat. "No matter," he said, quickly walking away, grabbing his briefcase, and leaving the classroom.

It was 8:59.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, I'd live in the clock tower. **btw#2 to *Just 2 Dream of You*** – No, I don't know how to spin. But I watched several youtube videos and read a bunch of stuff in prep for this story. Also, good luck on your surgery! **btw#3 to *Babygirl Garcia*** – That made me laugh. I hope the dream was filled with lots of Gold-en goodness. | Thanks to all for the reviews.]


	5. Chapter 5

"Gaston called."

Moe saw his Belle freeze for a moment then grab two hot pads and lift the pot of noodles off the stove to drain.

"When was this?" she asked as she poured the noodles into the strainer in the sink. Moe watched the cloud of steam whoosh up about her face, moistening the tendrils of hair curling over her temples.

_His beautiful, beautiful girl. So much like her mother_, he thought. Sometimes it pained Moe to see how similar Belle was to his Katherine, like having his wife's ghost flitting about right in front of him with her books and smiles and brown hair and blue, blue eyes.

"He called right before you came," Moe said. When Belle didn't say anything in return, he cleared his throat and continued, "He's a good man, Belle. He could take care of you."

_When I'm gone_, he added to himself, but he wouldn't burden her with that information. Not yet. He still had a year or two left, the doctor had said. There was plenty of time left.

Belle turned her back on him and stirred the spaghetti sauce she'd spent the past hour stewing and seasoning to perfection. She'd become quite the cook in the past decade and a half since they'd moved to Storybrooke and he'd opened the Game of Thorns. Moe had never been one for the kitchen, and when Katherine had died, he'd been relieved when Belle had stepped in without a word. She'd only been ten or so at the time, but she was so good. So brave. His beautiful little Belle. She'd handled her mother's death better than he'd handled it. Far better.

"Yes, Gaston is a good man," Belle quietly said as she picked up the pot of sauce and brought it over to the table where he was sitting. She looked at him straight on. "But not for me."

"Belle—"

She held up her hand, stopping him before he could continue, and he closed his mouth. "I don't love him," she simply said. "And I won't marry someone I don't love, even if he is a—a—" she stopped for the right words, dishing noodles onto two plates "—highly sought-after, dashing young suitor with more land and money than…"

She hesitated ever so briefly, and Moe saw a sudden flush on her cheeks. He wondered what that was about. Maybe she did like Gaston without even knowing it, and the thought gave Moe hope.

"…more money than any other available man in the town," she finished. "You should know, Papa—no one decides my fate but me."

She looked up at him again with subtle steel in her eyes, and Moe knew better than to push the issue. His little girl was so sweet, so perfect, but there was a sure fire in her veins that crept to the surface every once in a blue moon, and when it did, nothing could change her opinion. He wasn't sure where she'd gotten that hidden, hard streak. It certainly wasn't from him, he had to admit. But he let the matter rest.

Pushing down his concern, he smiled and said, "I surely should know by now. I can't even count the number of times I would come to your room at midnight when you were little and you'd still be reading under the covers. I'd tell you over and over to go to sleep, and you'd never listen."

He really had tried everything, from threats of punishments to promises of rewards, but he'd finally given up when she'd turned fourteen. His Belle had a mind of her own.

"Stubborn girl," he said with a wink, and she gifted him with one of her warmest smiles. They never ceased to soften his heart.

_His dying heart…_

"Thank you, Papa," she said. Then she dished up the rest of the food and they ate, carefully avoiding any further mention of Gaston. After they were finished, she got up to do the dishes, and though he protested every night she came, he secretly wanted her to do them. It meant that she'd be there with him for another thirty minutes before she left for her own apartment. It meant that he'd have another thirty minutes before he'd be alone again. He dreaded that moment every night.

When she was done, she kissed his cheek, told him she'd be back tomorrow evening, and left. He watched her through the front-store window until she rounded the corner, and he sighed.

Maybe tomorrow he'd work up the courage to tell her. Or the tomorrow after that…

Turning around, he made his way to the living space in the back of the flower shop, touching the soft petals of a rose here and a lily there. He felt old. Afraid. He didn't want Belle to be alone when the time came for him. His Katherine had left him Belle. Moe would leave her with no one.

Unless he could get Belle to reconsider Gaston's proposal. The boy wouldn't wait forever, but maybe. Just maybe…

He sat back down at the kitchen table, fingered the growing bills he'd hidden in the corner behind the jar of flour (another thing he'd been keeping from Belle), and tried to ignore just how quiet everything had turned without his little girl.

* * *

As Belle walked the three blocks to her small apartment, Gaston was as far away from her thoughts as possible. There was only room for one face in her mind, one that never smiled but whose lips had twitched once, wanting to lift. A face that concealed a thousand times more than it showed, with black coffee eyes, so stern and controlling on the outside, but lost on the inside—a side which only emerged when he was sitting at a wheel, watching it spin and spin and spin.

After class on Friday, Belle had been confused. When Mr. Gold had dismissed her so coldly during the break, she'd concluded that there was nothing between them, that she'd imagined everything on the preceding Wednesday, and, most of all, she'd hated how much it had hurt.

But then, right before Friday's class had ended, he'd touched her. And his touch had lingered. And his voice had lowered, his accent thickened. He'd been so close—so close she'd barely dared to breath—then he'd left. Started away like a frightened animal, away to his briefcase and out the door, leaving her watching his every move and trying to understand what had just happened.

He'd touched her…

A large part of her shouted and screamed that he'd only been helping her like any other student, but a small, quiet part whispered that there had been something more to it. Much more. And it made her flush with the memory, like she'd flushed during dinner with her father. One second, she'd been talking about how she didn't love Gaston despite his popularity among the giggling gaggle of Storybrooke's females and despite his wealth. Then the next second, she'd realized that her mind had wandered to Mr. Gold, and she'd felt herself blush. She hoped her father hadn't noticed.

_Heavens, Mr. Gold is probably Dad's age!_ she suddenly thought. Of course she'd realized Mr. Gold's age before, but she didn't care as far as she was concerned. Age was age, and besides, she'd always felt older than her peers, unable to really mix in well. It'd left many weekends free for reading as she was growing up, so she really hadn't minded. But certainly Mr. Gold wouldn't want someone as young and inexperienced as she was. How could such a distinguished bachelor care for her?

A brief image of her father's apoplectic response at hearing that his daughter was dating someone as old as he was passed through her mind, and she smiled. And then, just as quickly, she blushed yet again at the thought of her and Mr. Gold dating.

That sort of thing only happened in fairytales.

When she reached her small apartment, she saw that she'd left her cell phone on the counter in her haste to make it to dinner with her father. She'd been reading a book and lost track of time, and must have forgotten the phone in the tumult. At least she hadn't absent-mindedly shelved it alongside the book while it was on silent mode like she'd done a couple months back. It'd taken her days to find it then.

She picked the phone up and saw that she'd missed a text from Ruby. She pulled it up.

_Tomorrow's going to be a GOLDen Monday. What are you going to wear?_

Belle frowned. How Ruby could simultaneously despise Mr. Gold's vampiric guts and play match-maker, Belle would never understand. Ruby's brain was one mystery she thought she'd never crack and wasn't sure if she wanted to.

But even as she ignored the text, flinging her phone back on the table as she started a pot of tea, Belle felt her stomach flutter with the thought that she'd see Mr. Gold again tomorrow. The six hours she'd spent with him thus far had only served to confuse her to high heaven, and she had no clue what to expect. She wasn't sure if she'd see the sardonic, hard-fronted businessman or the calm, gentle-fingered spinner. And did it matter which one she saw?

Taking in a deep breath, she left the pot to boil on the stove and wandered over to her bedroom closet. Before she could even open the doors, though, she heard her phone vibrate and returned to the kitchen to retrieve it. Belle considered ignoring it altogether when she saw it was another text from Ruby, but she pressed select anyways.

_Do you think he uses product in that gorgeous hair? I'd love to know the brand. Could you ask him for me?_

_Yup_, Belle thought, pushing the phone away. _Should have ignored it_.

* * *

Mr. Gold checked his tie and suit in the mirror, and grimaced.

"Mr. Gold?" Mrs. Potts' voice came from his office. "Dover is waiting at the curb."

He quickly washed his hands and limped out of the small bathroom that was attached to his personal office. Mrs. Potts was waiting with a few files that he had requested.

"Before you leave, contact Mr. Hopkins and set up an appointment for as early as possible," Mr. Gold said as he slipped the files into his briefcase to work on tonight. "If he tells you he's busy, inform him that it would be _wise_ to reconsider."

"Threaten him without threatening him, got it," she said, jotting a note down.

If it were any other person, Mr. Gold would flay them for such a comment, but Mrs. Potts was Mrs. Potts so he let her be.

"Anything else, Mr. Gold?" she asked, looking up with a pleasant expression.

"No, that's it for now." He grabbed his cane and briefcase, and started out the door without a goodbye. Then again, he never handed out goodbyes, even to Mrs. Potts.

"Enjoy your class!" she called out as he left. "And try not to scare them too badly!"

When he left Mills and Associates, Mr. Gold found his chauffeur at the curb like Mrs. Potts said he'd be. He opened the back door for Mr. Gold, and he got in to see a take-out box from Monday's restaurant on the seat. As the chauffeur got back in and merged into traffic, Mr. Gold opened the box and pulled out a file, balancing one on the seat and the other on his knee. If he was lucky, he'd finish both before he reached SSU.

But, as had happened quite frequently of late, he wasn't so lucky. Halfway to Storybrooke, he found himself staring out the window and thinking of a certain blue-eyed Aussie lass.

He still couldn't grasp what had come over him Friday night when he'd taken her hand. She'd probably been repulsed—the old beast preying on her ageless youth—and she'd have every right to be. What had he been thinking? Well, that was it. He _hadn't_ been thinking. It was like the Aussie—_Belle_—carried an aura about her that stimulated his senses and dulled his mind. He couldn't let go how her hand had felt in his, how being so close to her had made his chest constrict with emotions he hadn't felt in ages.

And he'd also caught how she'd held her breath, how she'd stammered and blushed, as he'd leaned over her shoulder…

Mr. Gold snatched the file back up and for the rest of the trip, he plowed through it with reckless abandon, tearing everything he read apart. Poor Mr. Hopkins would have a very unfortunate meeting indeed.

Once his chauffeur pulled up to the history building at 5:37, Mr. Gold stayed in the car to finish his work, choosing not to go up early and prowl the halls like he'd done on the previous days. He usually liked to scout out a place before he entered it, making sure that everything was to his liking, but last time he'd checked the spinning room beforehand, he'd found something—or _someone_—very much to his liking and it'd thrown him for a loop. He had too much work to complete to be distracted by the Aussie—_Belle_—again.

So with three minutes to spare—the perfect amount of time calculated to get up the stairs and to the room—he finally got out and headed for the front door, telling his chauffeur to be back at exactly 8:58. He was halfway up the staircase when a streak of red and black barreled past him, and he had just paused to wonder at how any human being could move so quickly in four-inch, skimpy heels, not to mention up a flight of stairs, when the figure stopped mid-stair and slowly turned around.

"Mr. Gold," she said, looking him up and down carefully and rather a bit indecently. It was the girl who always sat next to his Belle.

Wait, _his_ Belle? When had that started?

He shook the thought away and returned her slow, appraising glance.

"Ms. Lucas," he said in a low voice, pleased that he'd noticed the girl's name when he'd looked up the Aussie's online. It gave him more control over whatever situation was brewing. Accordingly, Ms. Lucas flared her nostrils when he said her name, and he assumed she was wondering how he'd known. He smiled his cold, pure-businessman smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ms. French—" she emphasized the last name like he had "—is my friend. I don't want to see her get hurt. Got it?" Ruby gave him her blackest, most threatening glare.

"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Lucas?" he asked, saying it just right to imply that he perfectly knew to what Ruby was referring when her words had actually spun him round.

How could he hurt Belle? Yes, if he ever got too close to her then he'd most definitely hurt her like he did everyone who got close. But he wasn't intending on pursuing a relationship and Belle most certainly wasn't either. Or was she? Why else would Ms. Lucas, Belle's friend or so it seemed, be warning him off? His mind immediately and forcibly disavowed such a possibility (such hope?), and his smile grew colder.

"I will see you in class, Ms. Lucas," he said, passing her on the steps.

"Yes, and so will I. Every. Day," she said just as coldly and she didn't move until he'd reached the top of the stairs. She just watched him like a wolf, all threatening and still, ready to pounce.

_Just you try_, he wanted to growl at her, but there was a small part of him that very much liked or at least respected this Ms. Lucas and her audacity. Anyone who stood up to him was worth a second glance, even if she was a scantily clad wild child who looked remarkably more superficial than she was.

And there was an even greater part of him that was glad that his Belle—the _Aussie_, he corrected—had such a brash, protective creature as her friend.

_Especially with beasts lurking about_, he wryly, self-deprecatingly thought as he limped into the classroom, ignoring the pain searing through his leg after his climb and immediately ordering his ducklings to join him up front.

He once again quickly demonstrated to the class how to put the treadle together with the spinning, then he called on three more couples to publicly embarrass themselves in front of the class as his exemplars on what not to do. He was sorely tempted to choose Ms. Lucas each time and tear the wolf apart with his razor-sharp words, but he suppressed the baser emotion and chose only those he'd not picked on yet.

Which included the Aussie.

She was the only one he hadn't called up yet, so he pointed at her as nonchalantly as possible, and his Belle—the _Aussie_—took the bench alongside an older woman. He tried to ignore the Aussie herself. He tried to see her as a student and not suck in the details of how her knee-length taupe skirt flared out a bit to the sides, or how the sash about her waist was pulled tight, or how her dark brown blouse was the same color as her lovely hair—he tried to ignore all of that, and see her as just another spinner, but he was only mildly successful. And it didn't help that she was still holding her right hand a little too far away from the orifice. He wanted to reach down and rest his own hand over hers to correct her like he had last time. But he didn't.

"Back further, like I showed you Friday," he said instead, and he caught what looked like another blush painting her soft cheek. Quickly turning his glance to the older woman, he attacked her technique with proper gusto then excused everyone back to their wheels.

And that was when he met her ex.

It was 7:08, only seven minutes before the break, and Mr. Gold caught sight of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, tall, and evidently well-muscled man standing in the doorway of the classroom. Mr. Gold knew something about nice clothes, and this man clearly had the wealth to play the part of a rich boy with those shoes, black pants, and dark-blue buttoned shirt. There was also something about the way he carried himself which exuded a sickeningly confident self-assurance. He was the sort of man, Mr. Gold judged, who'd grown up as the dream of every girl and the nightmare of every weak, picked-on boy. The sort who was born to wealth and used to getting whatever he wanted. The sort Mr. Gold despised. And maybe he was being unjust, but Mr. Gold's gut instincts upon first impressions were rarely wrong. He immediately knew that this privileged young lad would never be among his list of the approved.

"Yes, dearie?" Mr. Gold asked, straightening up and placing both his hands in front of him on his cane as he was wont to do.

The man took a step into _his_ domain—Mr. Gold scowled—and asked, "Is Belle here? I was told that—"

"Gaston?" Belle asked, eyes wide, and Mr. Gold's scowl deepened.

Of course she'd already have a strong, handsome lover in her life. He should have assumed that.

"We are in the middle of class," he said through clenched teeth.

Gaston—as she'd called him—ignored Mr. Gold and took a step toward _his_ Belle. "I've been trying to reach you," he said. "You need to—"

Mr. Gold was about to disrupt the lovebirds' moment with as much acid as he could muster when Belle suddenly surged upward, grabbed Gaston's arm, and yanked him out of the classroom.

"What are you doing here?" Mr. Gold heard her ask as soon as they'd reached the hallway.

"Your father said that you were—"

The rest of the conversation cut off as Mr. Gold heard the lounge door close behind them.

He stood there for a moment in the abrupt quiet, staring at the classroom entrance, feeling his chest constrict with an anger he poorly understood, before he spun on his remaining students. "Problem?" he asked, seeing that they'd stopped. He glared at them, and everyone quickly continued their practicing, but not before he noticed the concerned expression on Ms. Lucas' face as she, too, stared at the entrance.

She was concerned? So this Gaston wasn't someone good for Belle? Should _he_ be concerned?

He gripped his cane and ground his teeth, continuing his rounds about the room but not having enough clarity of mind to fix the dozens of blatant errors staring up at him. If this was the man whom Belle chose to be with, let it be. Besides, she deserved someone like this Gaston. Strong. Young. Not crippled.

For the last five minutes before the break, Mr. Gold gripped his cane ever more tightly and ground his teeth ever more angrily. It was a relief when everyone scattered for their break so he could limp to the table in the corner, throw his cane and briefcase on top, and throw himself into his work. He'd just started on the first file when he saw four-inch red heels and spider-web leggings stop in front of him.

"From Dr. Blanchard," Ms. Lucas said, dropping a plate on top of his work in front of him. Not bothering to see what Ms. Blanchard had given him, he looked up with a menacing glare, and Ms. Lucas threw back a glare just as angry which seemed to shout out "coward" with every withering second. Then she spun on her heels and left the room.

He brushed Ms. Blanchard's newest thank-you attempt to the side with some violence, and continued with his work. He only made it a few minutes before he heard the lounge door open and Belle's voice floated down the hall.

"I asked you to leave, Gaston," she was saying.

"No, you aren't listening, Belle," Mr. Gold heard the man say, and Mr. Gold stumbled to his feet without another thought, grabbing his cane.

"Please, Gaston, just—" Belle started, but Mr. Gold heard Gaston interrupt her.

"I won't allow it," he was saying in a domineering voice, and then Mr. Gold finally made it to the hallway and saw Gaston towering over his little Belle, all confidence and self-assured patriarchal authority. Mr. Gold felt his every muscle stiffen with rage. Yes, Gaston was just the sort of man he despised.

"I think Ms. French has asked you to leave, dearie," Mr. Gold said in a low voice.

Belle looked past Gaston to see him but before Mr. Gold could make out her expression—to see what emotion played there, whether irritation or relief or something else entirely—he focused on Gaston who had turned with an amused expression on his handsome face. "I do believe we're old enough to figure this out on our own without the teacher's help," he mockingly said and he turned back to Belle.

"I don't believe you heard me," Mr. Gold said in an even lower, more threatening voice before Gaston could say anything more. "Ms. French asked you to leave."

Gaston looked back up and must have seen something in Mr. Gold's face because he backed down. "Fine," he said, giving Belle a look that clearly said he wasn't finished with her, then he walked away from Belle, toward Mr. Gold—who was gripping his cane with white knuckles to keep himself from striking the man with it—and down the staircase.

_Why didn't I just strike the imbecile?_ Mr. Gold thought. It certainly wasn't because of the air of family wealth and influence that surrounded the man. Mr. Gold could care less about pedigree and familial clout. He'd only remembered barely containing himself when he'd considered what Belle would have thought of him if he'd struck the chauvinistic pig down right in front of her and struck him again and again and again…

"Are you all right, Ms. French?" Mr. Gold asked as soon as he'd heard Gaston's footsteps disappear.

"Yes, I'm fine," Belle said, giving him a little smile. "I'm really sorry about that. Gaston, he—"

"You don't need to explain it to me, dear," Mr. Gold said, and he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared back into the classroom.

As soon as he reached the desk, he collapsed into the chair and deliberately put pressure on his right leg, letting the pain rear its ugly head and forcibly clear his head. Picking his pen back up, he heard Belle's footsteps down the hall, heard the lounge door close, and he took in a deep breath.

Oh, how he wanted her explanation. How he wanted her tea, her words, her face. But he wasn't good for Belle. He could never be good for her. He didn't deserve her…

Pressing his right leg into the ground even more forcefully, he turned back to his work.

Ten minutes later, his hands still shaking, Mr. Gold heard the lounge door open again and heard small footsteps approaching the room. He felt his face turn blank when he looked up to see Belle holding two cups of tea.

"Can I tempt you with a cup?" she asked with a smile, all warm and sincere and oh-so-blue-eyed.

"Since you went to the trouble of bringing it," he hedged, half of him wanting to send her away with a pithy remark, the other half wanting—needing—her to stay.

Her smile widened, and she came up to the long desk, handing him one of the cups. Their fingers brushed, and they both paused, eyes holding, until he pulled away.

"Thank you," Mr. Gold said, the words strange on his tongue.

"You're welcome," she said. He felt a start of surprise when, instead of leaving or giving him his distance, she leaned against the far side of the desk and took a sip.

Tearing his eyes away from her before she could realize he was staring, he took his own first sip and gave a small, involuntary sound of approval in the back of his throat. Strong. With only a touch of cream and nothing else. He took a second sip. "Make another cup like this and I may have to steal you away," he said with a small, teasing lift of his lips.

"If you tried asking, I might just come voluntarily," she returned, eyes dancing.

"To the beast's lair?" he managed to ask, tea and wheels and contracts and everything suddenly forgotten. She'd come? With him?

She shook her head. "You're not a beast."

"Ah, not everyone would agree with you there, dearie." He pulled his eyes away from her alluring blue whirlpools, cupped his tea in both hands, and looked down at its dark liquid.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them for a moment, and then she scooted a little closer up the table, closer to him, and he looked back up with another start of surprise.

"Last I checked, Mr. Gold, beasts don't save damsels in distress," she said in a quiet voice, her face alight. "Thank you, for what you did."

He nodded, swallowing. "No matter."

"No, it did matter," she said, daring to rest a hand on his arm. He looked down at it then back up to her face. Again, their eyes held—beautiful blue on dark black-brown.

"You are always welcome, Ms. French," he quietly said.

"Belle," she said.

"Yes, I know."

"I mean, you may call me Belle," she said.

He gave a small, noncommittal nod and took another sip.

She straightened back up, taking her hand away and looking down for the first time at her own tea. "I know that you didn't—don't expect an explanation, but I'd…" She paused. "I'd like to give you one," she finished off even more quietly, looking back up at him.

He could only nod.

"Gaston, he…" She looked back down at her tea. "He's not a bad man. He's a really good guy, in fact. Just…not for me."

He felt a stir of relief. So she didn't like the tall, handsome, strong brute.

"His family owns a very large, _very_ wealthy—" she emphasized the word but not, Mr. Gold thought, because she was impressed "—vineyard and country club just outside of town, and four generations of Gaston Leblanc's have owned it. Well, a year ago, he and I were engaged. It was more of my dad's doing, actually."

Mr. Gold developed a sudden dislike for Mr. French.

"My dad, he—he just wants me to be happy, to be taken care of, to have the comforts he's never been able to give me." She looked back up at Mr. Gold with a smile. "He loves me too much, really—gives me everything he has and then some. After Mom died, I was all he had. I think he forgets, sometimes, that I'm all grown up now and not the ten-year-old girl he was left with when she passed away."

The cheer in her voice abruptly lessened, and Mr. Gold looked back down at his tea. People didn't normally confide in him like this. He wasn't sure what to say. So instead he waited until she'd cleared her throat and continued.

"Anyway, Gaston has always had a crush on me, ever since we were teenagers, and my dad thought it would be a good match. So I was engaged—"

Mr. Gold caught the slight nuance to the expression. It was forced on her. Not her choice.

"—and I let it go on longer than I probably should have because I didn't want to break my dad's heart or anything. I mean, it was only for a week or two, but of course my breaking the engagement didn't make Gaston too happy. He felt humiliated, and I do feel badly for that. He didn't deserve that."

Mr. Gold surely didn't feel badly, but he suppressed the satisfied smirk wanting to break loose.

"And now he's trying to get back together," she finished, looking up at him and swinging her legs. "And that's that." She gave him another smile, but this one wasn't as whole-hearted and pure as her others.

Mr. Gold studied her. "He won't leave you alone, will he, not until he gets what he wants," he stated, guessing at what was bothering her, and her smile instantly disappeared.

"He's insistent and proud," she said quietly.

"Bad combination," Mr. Gold said. Their eyes were caught together again, tied with a band that was trying to shrink, trying to bring them closer to each other, ever so closer, but both he and she fought it off.

"Yes," she whispered. "Very bad."

He wanted to touch her. He wanted to wrap his arm around her and never let go, keeping her safe from the world, from that idiot Gaston, even her father. He wanted to take her away, hide her from everyone and everything. Mr. Gold set his cup down and stood up, and he saw Belle's breathing quicken. He took a small, hesitant, limping step forward, feeling everything dim but his Belle and her beautiful blue eyes and brown hair.

But then everything halted when a large group of students returned to the room, chatting and giggling.

Mr. Gold took a quick step back, startled by what might have happened had they not been interrupted. With cheeks ever so faintly painted with rose, Belle gave him a small smile, grabbed his tea cup and her own, and hurried out of the room.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, Mr. Gold's pawnshop would be my hide-out. **btw#2 **– I vaguely remember reading another fanfic which uses a line similar to "beasts don't save damsels in distress." It kind of stuck with me, and I hope the author doesn't mind that I borrowed it. | As always, thanks to all for the reviews.]


	6. Chapter 6

Ruby was fuming over her grande hazelnut macchiato, watching milky white and caramel tan and espresso brown swirl together as she stirred it.

"Um, you feeling okay Ruby?"

She looked up to see Peter, her deliciously dark handsome barista boy, peering down at her, a rag in hand.

"Fine," she muttered, taking a swig of her drink. "Never. Better."

"Want to talk about it?" he asked as he hooked his boot over the rung of a chair, pulled it out, and sat down, all in one smooth move that would have normally left Ruby smirking seductively.

"Nope." She took another sweltering gulp.

"You sure?" he asked, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes. "Ruby?"

She suddenly slammed her cup down and ripped her head up, glaring furiously at him with black eyes. He quickly scrambled back in his chair.

"Men are idiots," she growled.

"Oh." Peter didn't know what to say. He usually didn't when Ruby was around. "Have I made you mad?"

"Yes—no, no," Ruby said, squeezing her eyes shut and putting her red-fingernailed hands over her face. "I'm sorry."

"So I haven't done anything?" Peter hesitantly asked.

"Men are idiots," she just simply repeated, her voice muffled by her hands.

"So I have done something?"

She flipped again, violently removing her hands and glaring at him. "Peter." She pursed her bright red lips. "Man up."

Then without another word, she stood up and walked out of the coffee shop, leaving a very confused Peter behind.

Ruby was angry. No, she was furious. Gut-acidly furious. How could that pig of a man, Gaston, think that he could just waltz into the middle of class and reclaim Belle? What a despicable, uneducated, dumber-than-pig's-brains, revolting imbecile of a blaggard!

Fortunately for Gaston, Belle had already dumped him right before she and Ruby had met back in August at the start of school. If she hadn't, Ruby probably would have planned for Gaston to have a little "accident" rather than watch him degrade Belle further. Ruby still remembered how he had barged into Ruby and Belle's office during the first week of school, clearly tipsy, yelling about how he wouldn't allow his fiancée ("ex-fiancée," Belle had calmly interrupted) waste her time reading books and getting dangerous ideas in her head.

"Yes, since reading is _such_ a dangerous activity," Ruby had drawled. It had been obvious after listening to Gaston's rampage for only thirty seconds that in his mind, education was for men without oh-so-wealthy family vineyards and for women without good looks. She'd instantly hated him. And she'd instantly loved Belle when Belle had stood up to the man.

"Gaston, I will attend school because I want to attend," she'd said. "And you will leave because I want you to leave. Do not come back here again, please."

And that had been that—the start to Belle and Ruby's friendship, and the one and only time Ruby had met Gaston.

Until tonight.

After Belle had dragged Gaston out into the hall and into the lounge, Ruby had fought every impulse to go charging after them. But she'd contained herself because she knew that Belle wouldn't want her to interfere, that she would want to get rid of Gaston herself. For such a gentle person, Ruby admired Belle's guts. She could be a smiling, sweet-tempered angel one second and a stubborn, fire-eyed warrior the next. The warrior didn't come out to play very often, but it was certainly there.

But if Ruby couldn't do something, Mr. Gold could. It was his classroom, Belle was his student, and he had the right to kick Gaston out on his patoot. But Mr. Gold had just stood there and watched as Belle left. And when the break had started, he'd slunk over to his corner and pulled out his work. It was clear that he had no intention to intervene. Sure, Mr. Gold was all high and mighty, higher and mightier than any thunderous Thor, but so far, when it came to Belle, he'd been nothing but a yellow-bellied dummy.

(_Like Peter_, Ruby sullenly thought, but she pushed the thought away. There were more important things to deal with right now.)

Ruby could tell Mr. Gold was ridiculously attracted to Belle. It was so blatantly obvious in how his gaze would linger on Belle, how his face would go all slack-jawed and his eyes would soften, how he handed out quips to Belle more freely than a bible salesman handing out religion and then how he'd look so vulnerable for the flash of a moment when she'd laugh. Yup, the man was sunk. And Belle was equally sunk. Yet Mr. Gold kept on adding layer after layer of pitch over the holes in his boat as though there were sharks waiting just outside on the waters. He kept on pushing Belle away, ignoring her, and Ruby—more in tune with the move-now-if-you-feel-it brand of romance—was irritated. Sure, she hated the man. But even she could tell that they seriously had a thing going if Mr. Gold would just loosen up his tie a bit, and she was willing to let him try since Belle was so far gone already. As long as he never hurt Belle, that was. And now when he'd had a perfect excuse to make a move, he'd held back.

Ruby frowned. Men were such idiots. And now she'd have to go save Belle and make sure Gaston wasn't still badgering her. Damsels saving damsels. What a screwy world.

She huffed up the stairs, preparing to lash out at Gaston, when she overheard Mr. Gold's low, alluring burr carry down the hallway.

"You are always welcome, Ms. French."

"Belle," Ruby heard her friend say, and Ruby snuck close enough to the door that she could catch a glimpse. She saw Belle sitting on the desk rather close to Mr. Gold, both holding cups of tea. Together.

Finally.

"Yes, I know," Mr. Gold said.

"I mean, you may call me Belle," her friend said.

Ruby caught Mr. Gold swallow.

She grinned and crept away.

* * *

Belle had wanted him to kiss her.

Was she going insane?

She gave an exasperated sigh, closed the book she'd been reading, and got up to the stove to pour herself another cup of tea. She knew that tea would only prolong her sudden bout of insomnia, but it was the only thing she felt like. Even if tea made her think of only one person and the conversation they'd had earlier that evening, and the way he'd been looking at her as he had moved closer…

Her cell phone vibrated and she saw that there was a text from Ruby.

Her friend had acted quite strangely during the second half of the spinning class that night. Belle had assumed that as soon as Ruby had come in, she'd grill Belle on what had happened with Gaston. But, very much unlike Ruby, she'd said absolutely nothing. Just sat there, grinning. Almost as stupidly as Belle had been grinning.

Wondering what Ruby had to say, she opened the text.

_Awake?_

It was nearly midnight and Belle was usually an early-to-bed-early-to-rise sort of girl. Ruby, on the other hand, was a mistress of the dark, so it wasn't surprising that Ruby was awake and would probably be awake for several hours yet.

_Yes_, Belle texted. She waited for a second, and her phone vibrated again.

_Good_, Ruby's text read.

Belle started to type a confused response about what was good about insomnia but froze. There was a knock at the door. Startled and sufficiently concerned (she never got late-night visitors), Belle had just gotten up to grab something heavy in case it were an unwelcome visitor—

_Like Gaston?_ a small part of her brain screamed.

—when her phone vibrated again.

_Knock, knock_, Ruby's text read.

Sighing but relieved, Belle unlocked the door and opened it to reveal her grinning friend.

"Boo," she said.

"Don't scare me like that, Ruby," Belle said, trying to sound serious but smiling back instead.

"What's that for?" Ruby asked, frowning down at Belle's hand.

Belle looked down to see that she had grabbed _Textiles and Women_, the hefty textbook she'd been reading, as her choice of weapon. How fitting. _Girl goes down fighting with textbook._ "Oh, nothing," she said, setting it on the table by the door.

Ruby lifted up a plastic shopping bag with two unmistakable bulges. "I invited Ben and Jerry, hope you don't mind," she said, producing two mini plastic spoons in her other hand.

Belle laughed and welcomed her in. Within two minutes, they were both on the floor, propped up by pillows and cushions, and emptying their Half-Baked Cookie pints spoonful by spoonful.

"Want to talk about Gaston?" Ruby finally asked, her speech slurred through the spoon she was holding in her mouth.

Belle took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Not really." She took another spoonful. "Want to talk about your barista boy?"

"Not really," Ruby said with a groan, and they both smiled. After a stretch of silence punctuated only by their sucking and scraping, Ruby asked, "Want to talk about Gold?"

Belle's hand froze midway to her mouth, and she felt herself blush even with the cold ice cream in her hands and cheeks. She glanced up at Ruby. "I think I'm in trouble."

Ruby giggled. "About time for someone other than me to be in that kind of trouble." She shuffled forward on her forearms, getting closer to Belle in true girly conspiratorial fashion. "So tell me this—which do you think of more: his gorgeous hair, his fitting suit, or his _bellas nates_?"

"Ruby!" Belle said, blushing even further. "I pity the professor who ever taught you Latin!"

"Oh, if you only knew," Ruby said with a mischievous grin. "If you only knew."

They both giggled.

The next morning, Belle groaned when her alarm blared out at 6:00. She hit the snooze button and pulled the covers over her head. She was suffering from a major late-night ice-cream hangover. When her alarm rang again five minutes later, she heard a grumpy voice come from the coach in the living room.

"If that's the fire alarm, just let me burn to death."

Belle turned off the alarm and walked out of her bedroom, pausing at the heap of blankets with black hair coming out the top and a hand hanging off the side with bright red fingernail polish.

"If it were the fire alarm, you'd be helping me to save my books right about now," Belle said.

Last night, after Ruby and she had exhausted the topic of Mr. Gold and then Gaston and then Peter and then Dr. Blanchard and Professor Nolan, eaten through their Ben and Jerry's pints and continued on to Belle's storage of ice cream, it'd been past three in the morning and Belle had insisted that Ruby sleep on the couch rather than drive home that late.

As Belle went to the kitchen to make some breakfast for them (even though her ice-cream sloshing stomach rumbled uneasily at the thought), she wondered what had come over her last night. She'd never been the girly sort. Her fantasies were usually kept locked up tight in her heart or her books, not giggled over way into the early hours of the morning. Maybe Ruby was rubbing off on her.

But if Ruby's girlishness had rubbed off, her high energy certainly hadn't, and Belle couldn't help but feel jealous. Once Ruby had finally rolled off the couch, hit the floor with a groan, and woken up, she'd stayed woken up, her usual bouncy self. Throughout Tuesday, there wasn't a single hint that she'd had a late-night ice-cream binge. Belle, on the other hand, was sluggish the whole day. The only thing that sent buzzes of energy through her skin and stomach was the thought of tomorrow's spinning class with a certain well-dressed gentleman.

And what a wait it was until Wednesday evening. Time had never felt so irksome to Belle, and when there were still a few hours remaining before the 6:00 spinning class, Belle was sitting at her desk and completely unable to do work. She heard a knock at the door and opened it to see Dr. Blanchard holding a plastic-wrapped plate.

"Could you give this to Mr. Gold for me. They're apple turnovers. Do you think he'll like them?" she asked with a hesitant expression.

Belle looked under the thank-you card (still the original one, she noted) and the plastic wrap to see two beautiful, perfectly baked pastries.

"They look nice," Belle complimented, skirting Dr. Blanchard's question and trying to suppress a smile. Although she did admit that Mr. Gold was being rather rude about the whole affair (it was all a front, Belle thought), she couldn't help but find Dr. Blanchard's efforts to make something Mr. Gold would like amusing. It also meant that she and Ruby had enjoyed several of Dr. Blanchard's delectable treats, compliments of Mr. Gold's rejections.

"Well if you find something he likes better, would you let me know?" she asked.

"Absolutely," Belle promised.

After Dr. Blanchard left, the remaining two hours before class started were trying, to say the least. Belle tried to read, research, reorganize her shelf, do anything, but she finally found herself straying to her laptop, pulling up google, and setting her hands over the keyboard. Then she paused. How could she google someone whose first name she didn't even know? Biting her lip, she typed in "Gold," "businessman," and "Maine," pressed enter, and hoped for the best.

She needn't have hoped. Apparently, Mr. Gold was not only a successful businessman as Dr. Blanchard had said, but a very legendary (and notorious) one as well. Several news headlines popped up with her preliminary search terms, and after a bit of digging, she found that he worked at Mills and Associates. Changing her search accordingly, she pressed enter and found page after page laid out before her extolling his genius, his sheer aptitude for business, and (yes) his ruthlessness.

_Gold Strikes Again: Hundreds of Workers Laid Off_.

_Gold To Take Over Mills and Associates?_

_The Golden Dealmaker Reaches Across the Atlantic._

_Gold Let Off For Battery?_

_Wrong End of the Deal?: Hopkins & Harley Stock Failing After Gold Drops Backing._

Not allowing herself to get overwhelmed by the glaring headlines, Belle tried to read between the lines of sensationalism and after an hour or so, she had reached a few conclusions: Mr. Gold was a brutal but honest businessman with no mercy for failing to uphold one's end of a deal and no patience for weakness. He seemed to have no qualms about closing entire businesses, but it appeared that in each case he had always had a very clear reason for doing so. He had an almost uncanny ability to read future trends. He was one of the most sought-after experts in the field and the most feared. He had power. Lots of power. And he was rich. Very rich. Much, much richer than Belle had ever imagined. Probably even rich enough to tempt Ruby even though she was convinced he was a vampire.

It made Belle feel very uncomfortable.

Finally having had enough of it all and unable to find anythingreliable about his personal life, Belle quickly closed her laptop with more force than she'd realized. She stared at it. Picture after picture of his cutting eyes, his carefully masked face, his cool demeanor passed through her mind, along with the woman—Regina Mills, CEO of the company where he worked—with her fake smile and angry eyes. It was a cut-throat world Belle was grossly unfamiliar with. And she wasn't sure if she liked the world where he worked or the Mr. Gold that the internet had shown her.

It wasn't the Mr. Gold she knew.

Nowhere had she found even an inkling of the spinning man she had seen within the first hour she'd known him. Had he hidden that part of himself that deeply? Could anyone do that?

Frowning, she pushed the laptop back, as far away from her as she could, and promised herself she'd never google his name again. She'd just have to find the truth from the source.

"He's here!"

Ruby's exclamation jolted Belle from her thoughts, and she turned to see her officemate leap into the room, close the door behind her, and lean against it as though guarding against a rabid animal.

"Who?" Belle asked, still a bit distracted.

"Who?" Ruby repeated in a bland voice, her face lowering with disapproval and disappointment. "Seriously, Bells?"

"Oh, you mean Mr. Gold?" Belle asked, feeling a crowd of angry butterflies whoosh through her stomach.

_The Dealmaker? The Destroyer of Jobs? The Beast? Monster? One of the top twenty richest men in the United States?_

"No, Henry VIII," Ruby said in a bland voice before exclaiming, "Of course, Mr. Gold. And he's not prowling around the halls. He's in the classroom. Just standing there. And waiting…" She trailed off with a grin.

"For Dr. Blanchard's thank-you gift," Belle said, still feeling like her brain had shut down.

"Um, sure," Ruby said with a twist of her brow.

"Right." Belle picked up Dr. Blanchard's plate of apple turnovers (hadn't there been an unreliable gossip article that claimed Regina Mills had poisoned a competitor with poison baked in an apple pie or something?), walked past Ruby and out into the hallway.

Before she'd had time to fully master her brain, she'd reached the third-floor spinning classroom, and, sure enough, there he was, as intimidating and authority-clad in his black suit as ever. His back was to her as he absently spun a wheel with his hand, and Belle flushed when Ruby's _bellas nates_ echoed in her thoughts. That was the last distraction she needed.

She took one step forward and his hand froze. He turned around, and Belle saw that he was wearing a deep midnight blue shirt with gray tie. She'd chosen to wear her gray dress today. How nicely they'd look standing next to each other…

"Ms. French," he said.

None of the pictures on the internet had captured the way his eyes had lightened when he'd seen her.

"Belle," she corrected, smiling. "I, um…" She looked down at the plate of apple turnovers in her hands. "These are from Dr. Blanchard," she said, hurrying forward and handing it to him. Their hands brushed.

"And even with the original note," he said with a ghost of a smile pulling at the side of his mouth.

"So did she guess right?" Belle asked, and Mr. Gold snorted.

"Hardly. I tend to stray from apples," he said. "It can be quite a risky venture in my line of work."

If she hadn't just read the rumor about Regina Mills, the CEO lady, she'd have missed the joke, but having read it, she laughed. "I don't think Dr. Blanchard's planning to off you, Mr. Gold. We'd have no one to teach us how to spin. And besides, she's nothing like…" Belle broke off, realizing that she'd almost completely betrayed that she'd been reading up on him and his business associates. She cleared her throat. "Besides," she tried again, smiling to mask her gaffe, "Dr. Blanchard doesn't have a mean bone in her body."

"Indeed," he said, a slight tightness coming across his face.

Belle swallowed. "So what is your favorite treat?" she asked in a light voice, hoping to loosen the sudden tension that had fallen between them.

"Are you completing recon for Dr. Blanchard?" he asked, and she was grateful that his teasing voice had returned. "Or perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, eh?"

Belle felt herself smile again and she shook her head. "You're not a monster. You just pretend to be, waiting until the last minute to come swooping into the classroom with your barking orders and intimidating glare." She hoped she'd said it with enough good humor that she wouldn't offend him, and it appeared to have worked. The left side of his mouth again threatened to break into a smile.

Two students came in then, and Belle cleared her throat again, realizing that she and Mr. Gold had been unconsciously moving closer together throughout their conversation. She gave him a smile and turned to go to her wheel on the other side of the room. She was surprised when a hand—_his_ hand—fell on her bare arm, sending a jolt through her skin. He quickly removed it as soon as she paused.

"A moment, if you will Ms. French," he said when she'd turned to face him. He avoided her eyes as he pulled a pen out of his inner pocket (which Belle guessed was probably the most expensive pen she'd ever seen in her life) and leaned down to write something on Dr. Blanchard's thank-you card. Belle twisted her neck to read it.

_Apples, Ms. Blanchard? A little common, don't you think? Try again, dearie. _

"Would you be so kind, Ms. French?" Mr. Gold asked, handing the plate with the note back to Belle.

She grinned as she took it. "Yes, I will," she said. "And it's Belle."

"Ah, must've slipped my mind," he said with a flippant gesture and higher voice than normal. Belle laughed.

Yes, the internet had indeed misjudged the notorious Mr. Gold.

The next hour and a half until break was pleasant. Mr. Gold came round to her and Ruby's wheel more often than he had on Monday, though still not as frequently as the rest of the room, and he'd make little comments that had Belle fighting smiles and laughs left and right. As soon as the clock reached 7:15, though, Mr. Gold left the room as quickly as he did at 9:00 every night. Belle felt a little dejected, but she wished Ruby a good time with her barista boy and made her way to the lounge to make a cup of tea. Maybe she'd go back and check to see if Mr. Gold returned in a few minutes and bring him a cup. He seemed to have liked the tea she brought on Monday. Maybe he—

"Checking me out on the internet, are you Ms. French?"

Surprised, she dropped the cup she'd been holding and turned around to see Mr. Gold watching her from the doorway with both hands in front of him on his cane.

"Oh, Mr. Gold, you startled me. I was just—oh!" She leaned down when she realized that the cup she'd dropped had chipped. "I'm so sorry—"

_Why am I apologizing to him?_ she errantly thought.

"—but it's—it's chipped." She looked up to see him watching her with an odd expression on his face. "You can hardly see it," she said, lifting the cup up a bit for him to see like it were an offering.

"It's just a cup," he finally said with a small shake of his head, as though the cup were worth nothing.

"Oh, right," she said, smiling shyly as she stood up. She felt her breath quicken as he came toward her suddenly, stared directly into her eyes, and put his hand over the cup in her hand. She froze for a moment, feeling his long fingers on hers, then let him take the cup out of her hands when he gently pulled.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice.

And then he gave her a small smile.

And it looked so right on his face.

"So, as I said, have you been checking me up on the internet?" he asked as he took a chair and placed the chipped cup in front of him.

Belle took a deep breath, trying to make her stomach unclench and her mind clear. Though his voice sounded as though he didn't care, she could see the same tightness in his eyes she'd seen before. "Maybe a little bit," she admitted. "Before class today."

"And pray tell, what did you find, dearie." She caught the anxiety in his voice.

_You're wealthy. You're a genius. You're trying to take over Mills and Associates. You're dangerous. _

_Wait, are you dangerous?_

"A lot," she said, turning her back to him as she grabbed the tea pot. "Tea?" she asked.

"Yours? Any day."

She blushed. He moved the chipped cup forward, and, wondering why he was using it, she poured the steaming liquid in then poured herself a cup and sat down across from him.

"So?" he pressed.

"They say that you are the world's only living heart donor," she said with a teasing smile.

"Good for them," he said, chuckling lowly. He leaned forward. "But what did _you_ find."

She realized that this was important to him. Very important. And somehow she could also tell that he expected to be rebuffed, expected for her to fright away.

She took a careful sip of tea. "I didn't find _you_ there," she said in a quiet voice, daring to meet his eyes when she said it. They tightened with confusion or surprise or anger or what, Belle couldn't tell. Then it passed. Just as quickly.

"So what do you do in your free time, Ms. French?" he asked, leaning back and wrapping his hands around the chipped cup. The tightness in his eyes had left.

She smiled, relieved, feeling like she'd passed some sort of test.

For the rest of the break, they talked about books, and she was excited to find as well-read a mind as hers was, or at least he was sufficiently literate to run alongside her. They even got in an argument over some analysis on Henry James, and the whole discussion invigorated and enthralled her. A few times after she'd found herself rambling, she'd been worried that he'd be bored, but then he would add something meaningful to whatever she'd been talking about to show that not only had he been listening but that he'd also been interested. She'd rarely had such an engaging conversation with someone before, and especially someone of the opposite sex over a cup of tea.

In the end, their thirty minutes were too short. Much too short.

Mr. Gold checked his watch when it was 7:44 and he sighed. "Duty calls, dearie," he said with a wry smile. "My ducklings are returning to the fold."

She wondered if he was as reluctant to leave as she. "I'll just quickly—" She gestured to the tea pot and cups, quickly standing up to clean everything.

"Take your time," he said, standing up as well. "I'll excuse a tardy just this one, Ms. French."

"Belle," she insisted, facing him. "For being hailed as such a genius, you appear to have quite a poor memory, Mr. Gold," she teased.

He nodded, his eyes gleaming, then turned to leave the room.

As soon as the door had closed and she had turned back around to the sink, Mr. Gold looked through the little window and watched her quickly scrubbing the dishes.

"Belle," he whispered, caressing her name.

Then he turned and limped back to the classroom, a small bulge in his pocket where he'd slipped the chipped cup when his Belle hadn't been looking.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, I'd borrow Emma's chainsaw and cut down the Blue Fairy's tree. If she has one. If not, I'd give her one and then get to work. **btw#2** – I also don't own the movie _Sabrina_. Catch the reference, anyone? | As always, thanks to all for the reviews. Over fifty!]


	7. Chapter 7

It was Thursday morning, a little after eight. Mrs. Potts had just arrived for work and was in the middle of reviewing Mr. Gold's schedule for the day when someone set a chipped tea cup on her desk.

"I need you to find a copy of this exact tea cup and order it," Mr. Gold said. "I don't care how much it is or how long it takes you to find, just do it. And I need it by tomorrow evening, Monday at the latest."

Considering that this was one of the odder requests he'd ever made, Mrs. Potts lifted her eyes and gave Mr. Gold a quick look over. He'd been acting very out of character lately. In fact, he'd been acting strangely ever since he'd started teaching that spinning class last Wednesday. He'd been coming in to the office either late or several hours before she showed up at 8:00, and once it'd appeared that he'd stayed all night at the office and never gone home. Even more surprising, a couple times she'd caught him staring off into space—something that she'd never thought Mr. Gold would ever do—and he'd been much moodier which, taking into account how temperamental he'd been before, was a frightening prospect indeed. Mrs. Potts couldn't help but pity those with whom he'd conducted business the past seven days.

And then there was the whole tea thing.

Before last Wednesday, Mr. Gold had guzzled down his strong tea like a child his sweets. She'd always made several fresh pots a day. But lately, Mr. Gold's tea intake had dramatically decreased. Most days, he hadn't drunk more than a cup or two and one day he'd drunk nothing at all. She'd wondered if he was trying to cut down on the caffeine, but Mr. Gold wasn't the sort of man to let go of his day-to-day habits and she'd caught him on Tuesday staring at the cup she'd set on his desk with such a look of uncertainty and, dare she say, yearning that she wasn't sure what to think anymore.

And now he had just set a chipped tea cup on his desk. It had to be related somehow.

Mrs. Potts was a naturally curious woman, and a curious affair was surely afoot.

"When you say you want an exact copy, does that include the chip?" she asked when he'd started to turn away and lurk back to his den.

He gave her a look. "An undamaged copy, if you can, dearie," he said, sarcasm creeping into his voice. He turned back around and started to his office when he stopped yet again. His voice, this time, was softer. "And use that cup from now on for my tea." He paused. "Please." Then he disappeared.

Mrs. Potts stared at his closed door. Had he just said "please"? Had the great and formidable, gruff and domineering Mr. Gold just been…pleasant? And why, when he had his impressive Shelley tea set he'd used for years, would he ask for his tea to be delivered in a chipped, cheap cup?

Yes, something curious was in the works.

As Mrs. Potts got up and made her way to the office kitchen to prepare the first pot of the day, carrying the peculiar chipped cup with her, she wondered what could have come over the man. Could it be that he'd found a lady at this spinning class? The idea was nearly impossible to imagine. For the past three years Mrs. Potts had worked for him, she'd known what Mr. Gold did nearly every hour of his life, and there'd never been any time set aside for companionship of any kind. But if Mrs. Potts had to trust her womanly instinct, she'd say that Mr. Gold's heart was being touched by a feminine hand, and the thought made her own old motherly heart quicken.

Regardless, whatever or whoever it was, it was clear that there was something there that wasn't there before.

* * *

Belle knew now. She knew about his ruthless reputation in the world of business. She knew why he was a man to be feared, never to be crossed. She'd learned, at least in part, why he deserved to be called a beast.

Yet she'd let him touch her hands when he had reached for the chipped cup. She'd offered him tea. She'd spoken freely with him about Henry James and Milton and T. S. Eliot. She'd accepted him.

And he'd barely been able to contain himself.

What were in those cerulean depths that bewitched him so? What was in that unconditional smile that weakened him thus, in her lovely voice that called like siren song to his blackened heart?

When he'd walked into the lounge and startled her, and she'd leaned over and offered up the broken cup with both her dainty hands, her face marred with uncertainty, he'd scarcely been able to move or think. She was so, so beautiful. And perfect. A perfect, little light.

For so many years—too many—he'd shut out the world, and he'd done a mighty fine job at doing it. He'd become wealthy. Powerful. He'd become the figure of authority and respect and dread which he'd imagined for himself as an angry lad of seventeen, leaving Scotland behind. No longer was he forced to play to the whims of those higher than he. _He_ was the highest. He bowed to no one.

But for all his might, he still went home to a dark house every night.

Mr. Gold ground his teeth. He didn't know why that part of Dr. Hopper's conversation two weeks ago kept haunting his mind—that every night he returned to his house, it was empty, dark. It'd never bothered him before until he'd met Belle. Oh, how she could lighten up that darkness, _his_ darkness!

A knock came at the door and he straightened up, shuffling his papers so that it would look like he'd been working. "Yes, Mrs. Potts?" he called, kicking himself for his foolish thoughts.

She walked in with a file in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His Belle's cup.

"The EPS file you requested and your tea," she said, handing both to him. "And Dr. Hopper is on line one. Should I have him call back later?"

"No, I'll take it." Mr. Gold picked up the phone as soon as Mrs. Potts had left. "Dr. Hopper," he said, looking down at the chipped cup on his desk. It was a dainty, pretty little cup, with a golden rim, slender handle, and a simple blue flower design on the front—blue, like her eyes.

_Gold for him, blue for her_, he wryly thought.

"How are you doing, Mr. Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked in his calm, soft voice, interrupting his musings.

Mr. Gold cleared his throat and tore his eyes away. "Calling to check up on me, dearie?" he asked, ignoring the man's first question. "Before you ask, let me report that I've been a very good little boy and attended every detention you've assigned me at SSU where I've done my level best to be on my best behavior."

The last wasn't the complete truth, but at least he hadn't skinned any of his ducklings yet, however tempting it had been at times. And he hadn't hit Gaston. He deserved a bloody medal.

"Yes, Mary Margaret said that you seemed to be getting along well," Dr. Hopper said. "She also said that several of the attendees have come up to her and said that they're learning a lot from the class. She's very grateful."

He was getting compliments? He'd been expecting massive complaints by now. Maybe he was doing something wrong.

"I'm glad I've met with her approval," Mr. Gold said, rather sarcastically. If Dr. Hopper heard the derision, he chose to ignore it.

"And how do you feel the class is going?" Dr. Hopper asked.

Great. Now the little man was going to go all psycho-babble-y on him. Mr. Gold pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I'm very impressed with the group. They know their right hand from their left," he said, the derision now very heavy and evident in his voice.

"But what about _you_?" Dr. Hopper persisted. "Have you enjoyed it?"

Mr. Gold's eyes involuntarily crept to the chipped cup on his desk. One finger snuck out to trace the rim, dipping over the jagged chip. _Gold and blue…_

"Mr. Gold?"

"I do believe it wins over the underwater basket weaving class," he said, referring back to their conversation two weeks ago.

There was a brief pause, and Mr. Gold could tell that Dr. Hopper was debating on whether he should push for more information or let Mr. Gold be. To Mr. Gold's great consternation, the man went for the middle ground.

"I was hoping to come visit the class tomorrow to see how things are going," he said. "It'd allow me to be more specific and draw on examples for my letter to the board."

Mr. Gold grimaced. There was nothing less he wanted than for a shrink to be running loose in _his_ classroom. But this was about the evaluation, about knocking Regina off her throne and onto her pretty little—

"I mean, I'll still be giving you a positive evaluation—I promised as much," Dr. Hopper quickly corrected. "But this way I can write a more convincing letter."

"Then by all means, Doctor, come by," Mr. Gold forced through clenched teeth.

"That's wonderful. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Gold."

"But of course, dearie," Mr. Gold said, hanging the phone up. He stared at it for a moment and then his eyes wandered back to the cup. At least there was one thing to look forward to on Friday, he thought as he gently, reverently picked it up and took a sip. He hummed approval, deep in his chest.

Yes. Mrs. Potts knew how to make a dang good cup of tea. Not like his Belle's, though. His secretary's was more bitter, stronger—perfect for work. And Belle's? Still strong but with the hint of something sweet. Perfect for his precious thirty minutes with his Belle in the lounge.

A voice inside of him was yelling, screaming at him to stay away, to protect her by never getting too close. But surely, surely, she was simply humoring him. She couldn't care for him. No one could. So what harm was there in him taking their thirty minutes?

He took a second sip, pulled out his work, and settled in for a long day of negotiations.

When Friday's class arrived, it couldn't have gone less according to plan.

"Will it be quicker if I walk?" Mr. Gold asked his chauffeur with stiff irritation, looking at the long line of crowded cars ahead of them. Because of an important overseas phone call he'd received at 4:50 that evening, Mr. Gold hadn't even left Mills and Associates until 5:30 which would have still given him just enough time to make it to the class on time, but now they were stuck in traffic. What bloody luck.

"I believe the car will be quicker, sir," his chauffeur said, all seriousness.

Mr. Gold sat back in the seat and pulled out his cell phone. After a little bit of digging around to find the information he needed, he dialed and waited.

"Hello?" a bright cheery voice asked.

"Ms. Blanchard," he said by way of greeting. "I am stuck in traffic and will most likely be—"

He looked up to his chauffeur who estimated that they'd be about ten minutes late.

"—fifteen minutes late today."

"Oh, I'm very sorry, Mr. Gold!" she cried as though a national emergency had befallen the highway. "I'll call Archie right away and have him tell the students. If you need anything else, I can—"

Without another word, he hung up the phone and leaned back over the seat divider. "Get there by 6:15," he growled.

They arrived at 6:11. Mr. Gold grabbed his cane, left his briefcase on the seat, and stepped out as soon as the car had pulled to the curb. Wincing as he hobbled up the stairs more quickly than he'd prefer, he took a breath at the third-floor landing and then entered his domain.

"Up front!" he barked, and as everyone gathered round his demonstration wheel, he noticed a frizzle-red-haired man with an umbrella sitting in the corner of the room. Dr. Hopper caught his eye and gave him a smile. Mr. Gold ignored him.

"Today, you're going solo," he said as he started up the wheel with a twist of his hand. "Most of you sorry lot aren't ready—"

That was only _mostly_ true. He'd never admit it out loud, but he was impressed with the progress they'd made. It was much more than he'd have ever expected.

"—but I only have three more classes to try and pound passable spinners out of you, so catch up and stay up or check out."

He showed the class yet again what to watch out for, both by demonstrating himself and by picking on a few students to spin in front of the class so that he could point out the errors he'd most likely see everyone make, and then he sent them off to their individual wheels. As he lurked about the room, critiquing with his usual zest, he was dissatisfied to see that, because of the short number of wheels, four attendees had to couple up and take turns practicing. Belle and Ruby were amongst them, and he knew that it'd be difficult for the four of them to keep up if they only had half the time to work. Sure enough, when Belle took Ruby's place halfway through the first half of class, she was already behind the others. She was a clever girl, Mr. Gold knew, but she didn't seem to be the most coordinated of the group. And she was still holding the wool too close.

"Now Ms. French," he said, pulling up alongside her as it neared 7:15. "What is it going to take for you to remember to hold the wool further away from the orifice?"

"As long as it takes for you to stop calling me Ms. French," she said, returning his teasing tone and speaking quietly enough that her voice didn't carry past his ears. She was smiling. Of course she was smiling. She was always smiling. During class, in the lounge, on the stairs, in his dreams…

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he frowned. Few people—a precious few—had this number. Something was wrong.

"Excuse me, Ms. French," he said, stepping to the side and pulling out the phone. He noticed the number and frowned. If his overseas deal fell through now…

He checked his watch and saw that it was 7:13. Too bad.

"Off to your break now, dearies," he said to the class. "My gift to you—an extra few minutes. Don't be late at 7:45."

Then he hurried out of the classroom and answered the phone gruffly. Sure enough, there was a minor meltdown in his deal, and he spent the next twenty minutes snarling down the phone, becoming the notorious Mr. Gold—the beast of the business—through and through. And as each second passed, each precious minute he could be spending in the lounge with a certain blue-eyed Aussie, he grew angrier and felt (could he admit it?) a flicker of something close to panic. He carefully concealed it behind his infamously low, menacing voice, refusing to let any weakness show over the phone, but inside he was shattering. He only had three more class periods, ninety more minutes in the lounge, one week of smiles, before he'd never see his Belle again.

And here he was on the phone.

It'd never struck him so hard that his time with the Aussie was grossly limited. Of course their relationship would never continue past the class. How could it? And his time was running out.

As soon as he'd reached a conclusion of sorts, he told the man they'd talk further tomorrow and quickly limped down the hall to the lounge. Ten minutes was better than nothing. But he paused outside when he looked through the window to see Belle laughing with Dr. Hopper. He clenched his jaw. Of course.

He was about to prowl away when Belle noticed him and her entire face brightened. She stood up and opened the door.

"Dr. Hopper was waiting for you," she said.

"Ah, yes, if I might have a word, Mr. Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked.

"I'll leave you two be," Belle said, and though she was smiling, was that a hint of regret in her eyes? Before Mr. Gold could stop her, she slipped away.

"Your teaching style is…unique," Dr. Hopper said as soon as the door had closed.

"Is it?" Mr. Gold distractedly asked, peering out the window to see Belle pause halfway down the hallway and throw him a glance over her shoulder before disappearing into the spinning room. The brief flare of jealousy he'd felt a few seconds ago blew out.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Hopper murmured, suddenly catching the expression on Mr. Gold's face as he stared after the lovely woman who'd just served him tea.

Dr. Hopper had known that forcing Mr. Gold to do the spinning class would be good for the man. But this? He'd never expected this.

_Note: Mr. Gold may be in love. Huh._

"Yes, it is," Dr. Hopper repeated, a small smile crossing his face.

* * *

When Belle returned to the classroom, she sat down at the wheel and sighed. She'd been so looking forward to tea with Mr. Gold, and now she'd have to wait out the whole weekend before she'd have another chance. She started idly practicing her spinning, but quickly grew frustrated. For some reason, the wool never slid through her hands right, and it kept coming out lumpy. Mr. Gold had told her repeatedly that she'd been holding it wrong, but no matter how hard she tried, her hand seemed to move by itself into the wrong position. It was frustrating. He probably thought she was dumb.

And too young.

And way under his league.

She sighed.

"Belle! Belle, Belle, Belle!" Ruby suddenly cried in a shrill voice, and Belle looked up to see her friend dancing into the room, face alight and body quivering with pent-up excitement.

"What is it?"

"Peter. Asked. Me. Out," Ruby said, emphasizing each word. "It's about time, isn't it?"

"That's great, Ruby," Belle said, trying even harder to conceal her own disappointment. "When is it?"

For the remainder of the break, Ruby related in tiny, oh-so-gooey detail how Peter had asked her and how she'd felt. Belle nodded and smiled and hummed at the right times, but she kept finding herself looking to the door, waiting for Mr. Gold to return. He didn't until right at 7:45, at which time everyone returned to their spinning. The other man, Dr. Hopper, who Belle remembered was Professor Nolan's uncle and who'd found Mr. Gold for the class in the first place, seemed to have left, and Belle wondered why the shy man had come. For some reason, she'd gotten the feeling that he was checking up on Mr. Gold. Come to think of it, Mr. Gold didn't seem the type to want to teach a spinning class. Maybe a torture class, she thought with an amused smile, but definitely not spinning for a room full of intellectuals. Perhaps Dr. Hopper had persuaded Mr. Gold to take on the class for some reason. But why? It was all a bit strange.

Ruby spun for the first half, and Belle for the last half, and still, Belle couldn't quite seem to get the tension right. She thought that maybe if she could have her own wheel for the full time she'd probably get it figured out, but there weren't enough wheels to go around, and Ruby and she had decided to team up to give the others a better chance to learn. So as 9:00 came around, Ruby trilled off something about catching a goodnight glimpse of her barista boy as she jumped away, the other attendees gradually dispersed, and Belle was still working, biting her lower lip as she tried to get the wool to move as smoothly as Mr. Gold could.

"Troubles, Ms. French?"

She started and looked up to see Mr. Gold watching her from the far corner of the room. She'd assumed that he'd left with everyone else as soon as 9:00 came around like he always did, but he was still here, an amused expression on his face. He must have been watching her for a few minutes before he'd said anything. Belle felt her breathing immediately quicken.

They were very much alone.

She swallowed. "I can't seem to get this thing to work," she confessed, turning her attention back to the wheel and promptly snarling it up.

"You are a terrible spinner," Mr. Gold observed, his voice and eyes teasing.

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious, oh Master," Belle said with a snort.

"Try again, my _apprentice_," he mockingly said, standing upright and starting toward her.

Attempting to ignore his ever closer presence, she spun up the wheel and tried again.

"Right hand back," he said, coming just behind her. "Left hand looser."

"Like this?" Belle asked, trying to get it right.

"No, no, looser."

Belle laughed with exasperation when she loosened it too much and he bluntly repeated that she was a terrible spinner. "I'm afraid I'm not so good at this," she said.

"Up, up," he said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

Thinking he was going to tell her to give up, Belle stood up with a frown but stopped her words when Mr. Gold simply turned the bench ninety degrees so that it was running perpendicular to the wheel. He gestured and she sat back down. And then, without another word, he hooked his cane on the wheel next to them and sat behind her. Her back to his chest. His breath on her neck. Her legs closed in on either side by his. His left foot nudging her right on the treadle. And his hands—his long, clever fingers over hers. It was him, all around her, all over her. His touch. His skin. His cologne—subtle, warm. _His_ smell. Him.

His hands froze almost immediately, as though his mind had finally caught up with what he'd done, and Belle could feel his shoulders become rigid. He seemed even more surprised than she by their sudden closeness.

She needed to say something. If she didn't, he'd jump away. He'd throw on the mask, hide the spinner away even deeper than before. And part of her wanted him to do just that because it'd be wise. It'd be safe.

But the other part of her wanted to fall, wanted to plunge, just as she had the first moment she'd seen him on the stairs.

_Be brave and bravery will follow_, she whispered to herself.

Clearing her throat, she quietly asked, "Can you—can you show me?"

He said nothing, but he didn't need to.

With a touch so gentle Belle wanted to cry, he wrapped his fingers around her right hand and slowly pulled her hand back on the wool. She felt the feather-soft fibers slip through her thumb and two finger, felt the strength in his hand as he directed her, guided her. Then he worked on her left hand, softly massaging her hand until it loosened over the sheep's triangle, tight enough to hold it back but slack enough to let the wool move. And then he started the treadle, the gleaming, smooth black leather of his shoe resting against her bare foot, and the wheel started to spin.

Since the first day of class, Belle had loved the whisper and the movement of the spinner's wheel. She'd loved just sitting and moving the treadle, watching it whirl. She'd loved watching Mr. Gold work even more, to see how smoothly he moved, how expertly. But this? This was her favorite moment by far.

To the whisper of the wheel, she could also hear the whisper of their clothing brushing against each other. And to the movement of its spin, she also saw his hands on hers, teaching her, touching her, caressing her, caressing the wheel, the wool, the wood—everything in front of him.

She finally understood now what he'd meant on the first day of class when he'd told the elephant stomper to treat the treadle like a lover.

Spinning _was_ a shade of love.

"Do you feel that?" Mr. Gold whispered in her ear, his voice low and accent heavy, as he helped her move the treadle at a constant pace, and his hands were gently moving with hers, keeping the line of wool taut but loose, and smoothing it out without bunching it or gripping it too tightly.

"Yes," Belle managed to say.

And that was all he said for an incalculable moment. Belle had no idea how long they stayed that way. She only knew that every touch, every breath—sinking into her flushed skin with tingling, sweet sting—would be in her memory for ages to come.

After they reached a joint, smooth tempo, hands and feet working together, Belle realized that she was still tense from when he'd first sat behind her. She consciously loosened the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and felt herself lean back a bit, into his chest. And slowly, ever so slowly, she felt him loosen behind her. His arms relaxed over hers, releasing their stiffness, and with painful caution, his head came to rest next to her ear. She moved her head to the side, giving him room, and after a hundred more revolutions of the wheel, she caught her breath when he lowered his head and his nose brushed her neck with the softest of touch. Little by little, he moved up to her jaw, making her shiver, and she felt his breath on her skin, warm and quick. First his left hand and then his right hand strayed up her arms to the crooks of her elbows, her shoulders, her neck, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Have dinner with me."

The voice in her ear was low and rough. She opened her eyes to see that the wheel had stopped.

"Tomorrow."

He was looking at her, his eyes dark, his face scant inches away.

"Yes," she breathed.

"At my house."

"Yes."

"I will have someone pick you up at 6:45."

"Yes."

A smile ghosted over his face. "You're a very difficult woman."

She felt dizzy. "You can cook?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I order out."

"No."

His brow furrowed. "And here I said you weren't difficult."

She smiled. "I'll cook."

He returned the smile, but it was spoiled with sarcasm. "I may be a beast, dearie, but I don't expect my guests to work for their—"

Without even thinking about it, she found her fingers over his lips, silencing him. His eyes flashed, darted down to her own mouth. "I'll cook," she repeated. Her heart was pounding. _Soft…so soft…_

"If you insist," he lowly said against her fingers. The feeling made her stomach twist. She quickly pulled her fingers away and was unable to restrain a quick glance down to his mouth.

She needed to leave. She needed to leave now.

"You can do the dessert," she said, trying to sound like they were just two associates figuring out the details to a luncheon, but her voice was too bright. "Do you have the usual kitchen stuff? Pots? Pans? Salt and pepper?" The last came out a bit teasingly.

"What kind of kitchen doesn't," he said after the briefest of pauses.

"Then it's a date," she said, smiling and beginning to stand up when he grabbed her hand. She felt her breathing abruptly increase again as she looked down at their joined hands and then up to his face. Slowly, he brought her hand up to his mouth.

"A date, Ms. French," he repeated, brushing his lips over her knuckles. He held on to her hand for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto hers, all intensity, then he released it.

"Tomorrow. 7:00," she whispered. And she stood up and left the room.

* * *

Mr. Gold sat there on the wooden bench, next to the wheel, staring at the now empty hallway.

She'd said yes.

What had he been thinking?

He staggered up, got his cane, and flipped out the light as he left. As soon as he reached the car and his chauffeur had opened the door for him, not asking what had kept him so long, Mr. Gold situated himself and pulled out his phone.

"Mr. Gold?" a confused voice asked after the call connected.

"Mrs. Potts?"

"Yes," she said, still confused. "Do you need something?"

He paused. His Belle was coming tomorrow and she was cooking and she'd need pots and pans and salt and pepper. "I need a favor," he said.

"A favor?" Now her voice was downright surprised, and for good reason. She'd never, not once, ever heard such words from his mouth. "What do you need?"

He took a deep breath. "How much do you know about stocking a kitchen?"

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. And that's a good thing. Because if I did, I'd start playing with Rumpelstiltskin's potions and probably blow myself up. **btw#2** – I also don't own the movie _Return to Me_. Catch the reference? Kudos to CloverKitten06 for the _Sabrina_ ref last chapter. | Ever eternally, thanks for the reviews.]


	8. Chapter 8

As Mr. Gold lifted the silver necklace from its blue velvet case, he smiled. The piece of jewelry was astounding. Small silver leaves hung from the chain about the neckline, and met in the middle with a sizeable teardrop pendent which had been exquisitely fashioned. In the middle was a diamond, and the entire thing gleamed in the light. But however striking the necklace was, it was the smile on Mr. Gold's face which caught Belle's attention. She'd only seen one that sincere on him once before, and she loved how it softened his face, brought the light into his eyes. It proved to her that she wasn't wrong, that there was something more in him than the hard businessman. It proved that the spinner was there.

As he limped toward her with a smile on his face and the necklace in his hands, he twirled his finger playfully, motioning that she should turn around. Belle grinned as she obeyed.

"What's the occasion?" she asked, knowing that first dates didn't typically include such an extravagant gift. She felt his hands come over her shoulders, and she lifted her hair to make it easier for him to fasten the necklace.

"The occasion is us." His voice was so gentle, not the bark of the classroom. It was the voice he reserved for her as they drank tea in the lounge.

Belle fingered the pendent for a second before turning, and he examined the necklace on her with a look of satisfaction.

"Wow," he breathed, and Belle's smile widened as she quickly leaned forward and hugged him tightly about the neck. She wasn't sure how he'd react to such touch, but he quickly returned it.

"Thank you," she said as he pulled her tight and rocked her from side to side.

"I've had this old trinket for ages, and it certainly looks better on you than on me."

Belle laughed and pulled away. "No. I meant, thank you for what you are doing, how you are changing," she said. "You're letting me see _you_, the real you."

They stood there for a moment, both soaking in the other's happiness, when Belle heard a sound behind her. She turned to see Gaston walking through a door, and she felt her stomach clench.

"Hey, Oldy Goldy," Gaston said in an angry voice. "You have my sword."

Somehow, Belle knew what sword Gaston was referring to. It was an old officer's sword which had been passed down through generations of his family since the Civil War and which hung prominently in the main hall of their country club for the whole world to see. But she didn't know why Mr. Gold would have it.

"I advise you to leave, little boy," Mr. Gold said, the sneer pulling over his face to completely conceal the gentleness that had been there moments before. Gaston intimidated Belle, but she felt even more anxious that the spinner had disappeared so quickly. She'd lost _her_ Mr. Gold so swiftly, so suddenly. She pulled at his arm a bit, but he ignored her.

"And you." Gaston turned to face her. "How can you be with such a monster? Or maybe you're just a possession, too."

"How dare you," Mr. Gold said in a menacing, booming voice, his teeth barred, as he quickly grabbed Gaston by his shirt and stepped him backward forcefully. "You want your sword? Fine!" he shouted, shoving Gaston back, and Gaston slammed against the door violently.

_No, no, no! _Belle thought. _He's not a beast! This isn't him! This isn't my spinner!_

"Mr. Gold!" she cried, trying to get his attention, but he was past hearing her.

"You can have it, buried in your chest," Mr. Gold heatedly continued, face contorted with uncontrolled rage, as his right hand shot out to grip Gaston's neck in an iron vice.

"Stop!" Belle shouted, beginning to cry as all of the news articles she'd read online a few days ago swept through her mind. They had all warned of his ruthlessness, his cruelty, but Belle knew there was something more. There had to be! She'd seen it. She believed in it. "This isn't you anymore," she pled.

"Oh it's me, dearie!" Mr. Gold suddenly cried out in a high, mocking voice, and when he turned, his face was that of the cold, angry man she'd seen in the pictures of him online. The smile was cruel, scornful.

The spinner was completely gone. Only Mr. Gold, the notorious businessman, was there, squeezing the life out of her ex-fiancée with his bare hands, hands she had watched handle wool and wood with the utmost subtlety. Hands which had touched her hands, caressed her. She felt her heart sink further as Mr. Gold continued his ranting cry over Gaston's desperate gasps for air.

"It's me, dearie! Always has been! Always will be!"

With a gasp of dread, Belle bolted upright, ripping herself out of the nightmare. She looked around wildly for a moment, trying to gain her bearings, and realized that she was in her apartment, in her bed, the sheets tangled about her legs. She heaved in a long, shaky breath of relief.

It'd been a dream. Only a dream.

She closed her eyes and tried to tame her rapid heartbeat.

It'd felt so real. _So, so real…_

She flopped back onto the bed, throwing the covers up over her face and again wishing that she'd never googled Mr. Gold. She understood there was something dark in him, a part of him that she knew must exist, but she also knew there was so much more to the man than what others saw. She'd already seen too much of the gentle spinner with gentle hand to doubt that his heart was good.

It had to be.

She sighed, peeking out of the covers to check the clock. It was only 6:07 in the morning, and Belle knew there was no way she was getting back to sleep. She groaned, but closed her eyes anyway, shoving the dream away. There was no way she'd be able to survive the day if she had that dream to worry about as well. Because today was the day. Today, Belle was going on a date with Mr. Gold.

She still wasn't completely sure how it had all fallen into place. One second, she'd been savoring his smell and touch as he'd sat behind her and guided her actions as she spun, and the next, he'd whispered into her ear and asked her to dinner. And she'd said yes. It was surreal. She would have assumed that last night had also been a dream if it weren't for the way she'd felt his soft lips brush her knuckles…

Yes, she was going out with Mr. Gold.

But what did you wear when you went on a date with an almost dizzyingly rich man? How should she do her hair? Her makeup? And, heavens, what had come over her when she'd said she'd cook for him? Mr. Gold probably never ate anything which hadn't been carefully structured and painted onto a porcelain plate by some eminent, flawless, gourmet chef. What would she make for him? Nothing with apples, that was clear. She didn't want him to think she was trying to kill him on their first date. But apart from that, "favorite foods" had never been a topic of conversation so she had no clue what he liked. Heck, she didn't even know the man's first name! How could she feel like she knew him so well yet so terribly not well? She knew the way he sometimes shook his head to clear the hair from his eyes like a teenage boy does. She knew he'd wince whenever he twisted his right leg too far to either side. She knew there was a gentleness behind his hard exterior; she'd felt it in his hands, in his voice, in his actions. She knew he wasn't the beast everyone thought he was and even he himself claimed to be. And she knew (however much she tried to deny it) that she was developing some very real feelings for the man. She knew all of this, but she didn't even know his full name.

And in less than fourteen hours, she was going on a date with this Mr. No-First-Name Gold.

Sighing with exasperation, she gave up trying to get back to sleep, threw the covers back off, and went to the kitchen. As she waited for water to boil for tea, she pulled out her mother's cookbook. Belle had used it so many times throughout the years that she'd had to tie a blue ribbon around the pages to keep them together. She pulled the ribbon off and gently flipped through the worn book, noticing her mother's penciled-in changes and additions on nearly every page, but none of the recipes jumped out at her. She went through one cup of tea. Then a second. Then a third. Page after page after page. And she still didn't know what to make for Mr. Gold. Thank goodness she'd at least had enough presence of mind to tell him to provide the dessert!

As she was looking over a recipe with seemingly more ingredients listed than all the food in her cupboards put together, she heard a series of soft knocks at the door, set in an irregular rhythm. She glanced up at the clock on her oven and saw that it was exactly 8:00. Curious as to who would be up and knocking on doors that early, she got up and cautiously cracked the door open a few inches.

A strangely dressed and even more strangely captivating man was standing there. His black pants and boots were plain enough, but "normal" ended there. He was wearing a gaudy long-sleeved dress shirt with a black and gray floral design, and on top was a buttoned-up vest with a differently patterned but similarly colored design. Belle wasn't sure if the two complimented each other in a weirdly perfect way or if they clashed in a purely horrid way, and she decided on the former. It was oddly right. Tucked into the vest, he also had a thickly bunched up black cravat that completely concealed his neck. His back was iron straight, there was a slightly manic light in his dark eyes, and when the door opened, his face had cracked into an equally manic-looking grin.

"Ms. French?"

"Yes?" she cautiously asked. At first sight, Belle's imagination had soared wild and left her with the warming thought that she was either talking with a man displaced from time or a psychotic serial killer.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I was awake. Can I help you?" she asked.

He flourished his hand and an envelope magically appeared in it as though from nowhere. "For you," he said, holding it out. "Courtesy of Mr. Gold."

"Oh, Mr. Gold sent you?" At the mention of his name, Belle immediately relaxed (even as something fluttered in her stomach) and she opened the door wider. "And who are you?"

"Jefferson at your service," he said with a small dip of his head, his hands open at the sides, like the little bows gentlemen used to give ladies ages ago. "I'm Mr. Gold's errand boy or…Baker Street Irregular, if you will." He added the last with sarcastic flavor, and Belle smiled when she caught the Sherlock Holmes reference.

"So you must be Wiggins," Belle teased.

"Oh no, that would be his other errand boy, European-based," he teased back as he tilted the envelope in her direction rather playfully.

Belle smiled again and took it. "Thank you."

"I am also to remind you that Dover, Mr. Gold's chauffeur, will pick you up at 6:45."

"Dover, yes, thank you."

"Well then, Ms. French…" He paused. "Ta-ta." And with that, he pivoted on his heel and waltzed away with a dancer's grace.

"Ta-ta," Belle quietly repeated. As soon as the dark figure turned the corner and disappeared, she realized that she'd been gawking at him as he left and she shook her head lightly. It was then she also realized that she'd never even told Mr. Gold where she lived. How had this Jefferson known? He seemed a creature of magic indeed.

Closing the door, she looked down at the envelope he'd given her and recognized the fine handwriting on the outside. It was Mr. Gold's. And he had written her name. Her _first_ name. He'd finally used it, not the overly polite Ms. French, and Belle smiled.

Quickly pulling the flap up, she looked inside the envelope and found a $100 prepaid credit card. Frowning, she reached back in and found a small square piece of thick, nice paper. She quickly read through it.

_If you will not allow me to provide the food, at least allow me this license since I do believe it is traditional for the man to pay for the date. Should you spend more for the dinner than what I've provided, I will settle the amount when you arrive. – G _

Belle stared at it. A hundred dollars would buy all of her groceries for a full month. Her first instinct was to stuff the piece of plastic back into the envelope and thrust it into his face the second she arrived at his house, but she hesitated. Something told her that if she didn't allow him this "license," as he'd called it, he'd close down.

But why on earth he thought she'd ever need $100 was beyond her. Maybe in his world of gourmet chefs a Benjamin wasn't worth much at all, and she abruptly thought that maybe her mother's cookbook wouldn't be good enough for Mr. Gold. Maybe she'd need to go online for some truly special recipes or cheat and order out like he'd intended all along.

But that wasn't _her_. How could she try so hard to strip Mr. Gold's mask if she wore one as well?

And that's what decided it.

Squaring her shoulders, she closed her mother's cookbook and made her way to the cupboard, pulling out the spices she used for the homemade spaghetti sauce she often made when she went to her father's house for dinner. They both loved it, and though it was simple, it was dang good (if she say so herself) and Belle knew that it would somehow be more honest than anything else she could ever find online or even in her mother's cookbook.

Checking her cupboards for ingredients, she wrote down a list of what she still needed, grabbed the prepaid card, and headed out the door for the store which was only a few blocks away. She felt her mind whirl with anxiety and excitement, but for the first time since she'd woken up (and since that awful dream which she was still keeping to the back of her mind), she felt that some measure of ease had finally settled about her.

She, Belle French, was going on a date with Mr. Money-Bags Gold, and she was making plain old spaghetti.

She smiled.

* * *

Mr. Gold frowned.

He was pacing in the front hall of the house, gripping the handle of his cane and ignoring the pain in his right knee as he glanced at the exquisitely carved antique grandfather clock in the corner. She was late. He felt a very unfamiliar flicker of panic in his gut when he thought that maybe she wouldn't come. What would he do then? He had just pulled out his phone to call her when the bell rang. He hurried forward and ripped the door open.

"You're late," he all but growled.

"And you've asked me to stock your kitchen with less than twenty-four hours' warning," Mrs. Potts returned with equal heat.

Mr. Gold noticed that she was holding several bags in both her hands, and her car—a sensible and simple dusky red Toyota Camry, he noted—was filled with many more. There was a veritable sea of shopping bags swimming in the back seat and trunk.

"You do know this is the personal kitchen of a notorious bachelor, not the Queen's pantry, right?" he wryly asked.

She huffed. "And you, mister notorious bachelor, have obviously not cooked in years. You asked for a stocked kitchen, and a stocked kitchen you shall have," she said, shoving a few bags into his open hand and leaving to get more from her car.

Mr. Gold grimaced, standing there for a moment before turning and limping to the kitchen. If he felt that Mrs. Potts held her own about the office, outside the office she was positively bossy, and no one bossed Mr. Gold around. No one. He was starting to regret recruiting Mrs. Potts. If he'd been thinking last night, he would have made a few calls, found a professional kitchen stocker or whatever someone like that would be called, and hired him or her at any cost. But he _hadn't_ been thinking last night (quite obviously), and the first person who'd popped into his head whom he trusted (though he'd never admit it out loud) and whose good sense was admirable (again, he'd never say it) was Mrs. Potts. He needed everything to be right for his Belle when she came, and he knew that Mrs. Potts would indeed do a perfect job, even if she was being nearly intolerable.

Yesterday evening after he'd called Mrs. Potts, she'd come over to inspect the state of his kitchen, and she'd been unafraid to voice her amusement at the scarcity of supplies—well, more like complete lack thereof.

"What do you live on, ice cream?" she'd asked, checking the fridge and freezer, and finding little more than his five pints of specialty ice cream that arrived every Monday evening.

"I happen to like ice cream," he'd lowly said, enunciating every word as he'd stood in the corner of the kitchen with crossed arms and a mother scowl of all scowls.

"You don't say," she'd dryly said.

Once Mr. Gold had made more money than even he had ever dreamed of, then doubled and tripled the amount, he had quickly decided that he could save loads of time if he quit cooking for himself altogether and sold his gastronomical soul to the take-out industry. He hadn't cooked a full meal in over a decade. His use of the kitchen was limited to the evening teas he brewed every once in a while, his fairly regular nighttime snack of ice cream, and little else. Before last night when Mrs. Potts had arrived, he hadn't even known what sort of cooking equipment he had in the house, and she'd been quick to inform him that his kitchen was simply pathetic.

Oh, the guts of that woman! If it were anyone but Mrs. Potts, he'd have sacked her on the spot and ensured that no business within a ten-thousand mile radius would dare hire her. But it was, after all, the fearless Mrs. Potts. She knew that he knew that if he fired her, he'd never be able to find another secretary quite like her who could also make tea with such British proficiency. Firing her would be an even greater inconvenience than the knock to his pride.

So Mr. Gold ground his teeth and went with the flow.

Twenty minutes and an aching right leg later, Mrs. Potts and he had carried all the bags inside. He felt like he'd been invaded, his ever so highly prized private space being overtaken by the overweening Mrs. Potts and her endless bag spawn. Just what he wanted.

"The food will be arriving within the hour," she said as she started pulling items out of the bags. "We're ordering about half of the store and they're requiring an automatic twenty percent tip due to the amount so it'll cost you a pretty penny, but—"

Not caring if it cost him many thousands as long as everything was ready for tonight, he quickly interrupted her with a much more important matter. "You mean all this—" he gestured to the impressive pile of bags and boxes on the floor "—doesn't include the food?"

"Mr. Gold," Mrs. Potts said, stopping what she was doing and fixing him with a steely glare. She was brandishing a new salad pincer which she shook at him as she spoke. "You had a frying pan, a toaster, one pot without a lid, and fewer dishes and silverware than a cowboy on the plains." He opened his mouth to protest and she added, "Barring antiques, of course."

His mouth closed.

"Honestly, Mr. Gold, I never knew you were such a collector. You could open an antiques shop."

His face hardened and he set both his hands in front of him on his cane, trying to assert whatever control and dignity he had left. Before he could think of a witty retort, Mrs. Potts continued.

"But if you thought that supplying a kitchen as sparse as this—" she vaguely waved her hand over the scene "—would be an easy matter, let me inform you as kindly as possible that you have reached a degree of delusion I'd never thought to see in you."

"Then by all means, dearie, let me inform you as kindly as possible that I will be in the library, since you clearly have no more need of my help," Mr. Gold returned through clenched teeth. "That is, of course, unless you order otherwise."

She gave a small nod of permission, and Mr. Gold twisted around and started his way down the hall but paused when she called after him.

"Might I ask what all this is for? Or who is visiting? Surely you have a visitor coming, right? I didn't have anything on the scheduler, though."

Without turning or answering her question, Mr. Gold continued down the hall, the thumps of his cane echoing off the walls. "Let me know when you are finished, Mrs. Potts," he said before he disappeared around the corner.

Once he reached his library, Mr. Gold sat down at the desk. The heavy curtains were pulled tight, and only the small desk lamp was on, throwing more shadows about the large room than yellowed light. Mr. Gold clung to that darkness, basked in it, as he ran through the list in his mind one more time.

He had asked Jefferson to find Belle's address and deliver the charge card. He had informed Dover of when and where to pick her up. He'd had the cleaning ladies come in early that morning and watched over their shoulders to make sure they'd caught everything. He had called his usual Saturday take-out restaurant—The Malekea—and ordered their top five desserts, more than eager to fork out the pretty sum to better ensure that he would have something Belle would enjoy. He had called someone in catering to set up the dining hall with his finest china set. He had ordered flowers. And Mrs. Potts was taking care of the kitchen.

That should be it.

At least he hoped so. He wanted everything to be perfect for his Belle. She deserved no less.

So why on earth or the heavens above or hell below had she ever agreed to the date?

Mr. Gold irritably stood up, having never felt this much on edge in years. He paced the darkness a bit until he finally found himself standing next to his spinning wheel in the shadowy corner. He set a hand on its smooth, worn wood, and closed his eyes.

It'd been years—no, almost a decade and a half—since the last time he'd dated a woman, and that had turned out to be a disaster which still interrupted his life to this day. And now his beautiful, perfect Belle was coming. Today. Tonight. A light in his dim, dark world whose brilliance he had no right to take.

He grimaced and his eyes slowly opened as he gave the wheel a small spin. Standing there, unmoving, he watched it go round and round and round.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, I would have paid someone else to write this chapter because it's been a SKUNK of a chapter for me! **btw#2** – Thank you for all the reviews on the last chapter! I really enjoyed writing that one. I apologize, though, for the tardiness of this update. Our best friend, Uncle Writing Block, came for an extended visit, along with that other distracting thing called "Life." I also knew how important this stage in their relationship was and desperately didn't want to screw things up. **btw#3** – Also, please don't petition for my immediate demise for postponing the date another chapter. If I'd combined the two, I'd have a super long chapter and you'd have an even longer wait, so I split them. Hopefully I can get the next chapter done more quickly than this one. | As always, thanks for your continued support, and a special thanks to jewel415 for kindly spurring me on. I hope this chapter provides you with a good enough "fix" until next time.]


	9. Chapter 9

Belle glanced at the clock on her phone for the umpteenth time. It was 6:38. She had seven minutes left before Mr. Gold's chauffeur arrived.

His _chauffeur_.

She felt the skittish, hysterical laugh that'd been brewing in her stomach all day fight to get out but she pushed it down and checked her bag one more time. Spices. Tomatoes. (_Does he even like Italian?_) Pasta. Cheese. (_Did all rich men have chauffeurs who picked up ladies for dates?_) Garlic bread. Salad. (_Where did Mr. Gold even live? A castle?_)

After ensuring that everything was there, her hand automatically reached for her phone to light up the clock on the screen again. 6:39. Belle sighed, closing her eyes. It had already been a _very_ long day and every minute only seemed to be getting longer.

She jumped and her eyes flashed open when her phone rang in her hand. Fearing that Mr. Gold was canceling, she quickly answered it without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"You have to help me!"

"Ruby?"

"Belle, Belle! You have to get over here. Right. Now!"

"Slow down. What's wrong?" Several scenarios played out in Belle's head. Maybe Granny was sick. Or Ruby had just been bitten by a rabid dog. Or her prize lipstick had melted.

"He's coming in an hour! And I still don't know what to wear! You have to help me!"

Ruby's voice was frantic, but Belle's apprehension faded away. She'd been close with the lipstick scenario, but Belle would have never guessed that Ruby was calling about a clothes emergency. Ruby rarely ever asked Belle's opinion about clothing because, in Ruby's mind, Belle didn't have enough "oomph" in her style. What would have Ruby so desperate that she'd turn to her for help?

"Who's coming?" Belle asked as she wandered over to the window to watch the strip of parking spots in front of the apartment.

"Who's coming? Who's coming!" Now Ruby's voice was just plain loud and a little irritated. "Peter's coming, and I'm having a wardrobe meltdown!"

It took Belle's distracted brain a moment to catch up. "Oh, right. You're going on a date with Peter tonight." Since Wednesday night, Ruby had spoken of little else than her date with the handsome barista boy, so Belle wasn't sure how it had slipped her mind.

_Well, no_, she thought as the memory of Mr. Gold's low voice in her ear asking her to dinner ghosted through her mind with a shiver. Yes, she knew exactly how she'd forgotten about Ruby's date.

"You have to come over here and help me!" Ruby cried. "I don't know if I should go for overtly sexy or subtly sexy."

Belle tried to hide her amusement, but it still colored her words. "Ruby, do you even own anything that's subtle?"

"Belle…" Ruby whined.

A sleek, black car pulled into the parking lot, and Belle's heart quickened. "Uh, Ruby, I think I need to go," she muttered.

"What? But Peter is coming!"

A remarkably tall man in a suit with longish coattails folded himself out of the car. He was wearing black gloves just as Belle had imagined a chauffeur would wear.

"Wear that black lacy dress with the red scarf and those shoes you were wearing Thursday. You'll look stunning," Belle hurriedly recommended, picking up the bag and checking her reflection in the mirror one last time. She noticed that her cheeks were flushed red.

"You think Peter will like it?"

"Ruby, Peter likes you for you," Belle said, pausing long enough in the middle of the room to make her voice sound firm. "You could wear a sack and he'd still be crazy about you. Now I've really got to go."

"Wait, where are you going? Are you actually acting like a normal human being for once and doing something other than reading on a Saturday evening, Bells?"

There were three soft knocks at the door.

"He's here. I've got to go," Belle repeated.

"Who is—"

"Later," she shot out, hanging up the phone as she unlatched the bolt and opened the door. The nicely dressed man looked even taller than he had from a distance. Belle had to tilt her had back to see his solemn face and shaven head.

"Ms. French?"

Déjà vu from Jefferson's visit this morning hit Belle, but this man was night and day difference from Jefferson. His voice was deep but soft and unassuming, and completely not what Belle had expected to hear coming out of such a tower of a man.

"Please, call me Belle," she said, smiling. "And you're Dover?"

"Yes, ma'am. This way, if you please."

As she locked the door behind them, he grabbed her bag without saying anything and gestured toward the black car. Belle didn't know much about cars, but it was clear that this one was very nice and very expensive. It was handsomely shaped, gleamed as though it had only been polished that morning (which, Belle thought, it probably had been), and the insignia in front had the letter "B" with wings on either side. She wanted to say that meant the car was a Bentley, but she'd never actually seen one before, having only read about the exclusive model in books.

And now she was riding in one. With a chauffeur. On her way to a date. With Mr. Gold.

She felt like insanely laughing again as Dover opened the back door for her, but she got in and thanked him instead. Settling into the remarkably comfortable leather seat, she felt her heart hum when she smelled a whiff of Mr. Gold's cologne hanging in the air. She closed her eyes and smiled.

"Are you comfortable, ma'am?" Dover asked when he sat down in the driver's seat.

"Yes, thank you," she said, opening her eyes to see him give a small nod and shift into reverse.

As Dover drove through Storybrooke, Belle could hardly hear the soft purr of the engine and the car glided over the pothole on 2nd Street which usually jolted her to the bone when she was on the bus. It was like driving on clouds. Up to the left, she saw her father's flower shop and hoped he was managing dinner on his own without her tonight. He had sounded so lost when she'd canceled earlier, but he had brightened up when she'd promised she'd be there for Sunday dinner. She'd have to make something special to make it up to him. Maybe Swiss steak?

Once Dover merged onto the freeway, Belle shifted forward in her seat. "Have you worked for Mr. Gold long?" she asked.

He kept his eyes on the road when he answered. "Yes."

Obviously not the talkative sort. "And you're in charge of driving him around?" Belle tried.

"Yes, ma'am." After a pause, he added, "And taking care of the car."

"Well, you must be very good because this is a very nice-looking car." Belle smiled, trying to get the laconic man to open up, but he merely gave a small nod of thanks.

"Would you like any music, ma'am?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine," she said, settling back again. Clearly Dover wasn't in the mood for small talk, and Belle wondered if Mr. Gold ever talked with the man beyond giving the initial directions. She guessed not as she glanced about her. There was a small desk-like wooden block built into the seat next to her which, she found, could swing out over her lap. Inside were folders, legal pads, pens—all carefully organized and readily accessible. It appeared that this car was only an extension of the office for Mr. Gold, and she frowned at the thought.

Didn't the man ever look out the window? Notice the blushing hues of dusk? Other human beings in their cars with myriads of emotions playing on their faces? Did he ever see the world spinning about him in its vibrancy, its vitality? Didn't he ever stop working?

The spinner in him did, she thought. The spinner had put his work aside to join her for tea in the lounge. He took time to watch a wheel spin round and round, and he had spun with her, touched her, chatted with her about Henry James and chipped cups. And now, he was having dinner with her. The businessman, however, she wasn't so sure. And she was even less sure how divorced those two sides of him were. The disturbing dream she'd had that morning fluttered back into her mind, the cold words flung from a cold face.

_Oh, it's me, dearie! Always has been! Always will be!_

Two sides to one coin. But was one side stronger than the other? And who would greet her tonight?

Belle bit her lower lip and turned her attention outside to the darkening sky.

Eventually, Dover pulled off the freeway and drove away from the lights of the city toward a more forested area. After a good while, he turned left to where a tall, black iron gate stood before them. It started moving aside so Belle assumed it was automated or something, and Dover drove through. At first, all Belle could see were the trees crowding in around them, but after a minute or so, she caught her breath at the sight before her.

She hadn't been too far off when she'd imagined Mr. Gold lived in a castle.

Nestled amongst the pines was a massive, stunning mansion wreathed in all the darkest shades of gray. It was constructed out of stone, and on high, Belle could see hideous gargoyles peering down from the roof with their contorted, cruel faces. In a way, the exterior of the house reminded her of Mr. Gold himself. It was intimidating, imposing, cold.

Dover stopped in front of the door and quickly came round to open the door for her. She stood for a moment, head craned back, as she took it all in before her.

"It looks as though it'll rain tonight, ma'am," Dover said, taking her bag and shutting the car door behind her.

Belle smiled at him, noting that it was the first real piece of conversation he'd offered himself. "I hope it does. I do love the rain," she said, looking up at the dark mass of clouds gathering above before turning toward him. "And it's Belle, not ma'am."

"Belle," he said with a nod, handing her the bag and gesturing toward the door. "I will see you later this evening for your return trip."

"Thanks, Dover," she said, and he got back into the car and started driving toward the garage that was set up at some distance from the main house.

Taking a deep breath, Belle made her way up the stone steps to the dark wooden door. She brushed her hair back with shaking fingers. She took a second deep breath.

And knocked.

There was nothing for a moment, and Belle grabbed the bag with both hands, fingers clenched tight. Then the door opened and she saw him, dressed as he always was in a handsome dark suit, dark shirt and tie. She vaguely wondered if he ever wore something less formal.

"Hello, Mr. Gold," she said when he didn't move. His eyes were bound to her face as though trying to remember a dream before it faded away.

"Ms. French," he said, all cool formality, as he opened the door wider. "Please, come in."

She smiled shyly and slipped past him, almost pausing when she saw the inside of the house. It was very different from the outside. Dark grays had been replaced by browns and reddish hues which, while still on the darker side, were much more warming and welcoming. She was also surprised by the number of items around her. There were dozens of paintings on the walls, along with a hanging sword in worn scabbard. A series of three differently sized pewter vases were on one of the window ledges, and various figurines and items filled the remaining nooks and crannies. And…was that a cello in the corner? She hadn't been sure what to expect but this was definitely not it. She felt like she were in a museum or the hidden treasure room in the deep recesses of someone's mind. But all the same, she wouldn't say the room was cluttered or distasteful. On the whole, she rather liked it. She was enshrouded by history on every side.

She looked up to see Mr. Gold studying her closely with a rigid expression. "You have a beautiful home," she said to him, and she noticed his shoulders loosen. She realized that he seemed just as nervous as she felt.

"Thank you, Ms. French," he said.

"I thought we were past all of this silly 'Ms. French' business," she teased, daring to poke him in the shoulder, and one corner of his mouth succeeded in lifting into a quarter smile.

"Names, dearie," he said as he motioned for her to turn so that he could take her coat, "have power. Are you so willing to give yours away?"

She laughed, hoping to disguise her shiver when his hands brushed her neck to pull off her cream-colored pea-coat. "Is that why I haven't learned yours yet? I do believe it is traditional to be on a first-name basis by the time the first date rolls around."

"Well, I wouldn't call this a traditional date." He hung her coat in the closet by the door (a closet about the size of her bedroom, she estimated) then turned to look at her with a teasing light in his eyes. "You did demand to make the food. Quite—" he paused with mock uncertainty for the right word "—inappropriate for a young lady, now, don't you think?"

"So name-withholding is the punishment for my indiscretion?" She tried to hide her smile away but knew she was failing miserably.

"Indeed."

She liked it when he was like this, teasing and playful, and Belle found that she couldn't take her gaze away from his coffee brown eyes. She was staring, and he was staring right back. Had it only been twenty-four hours since she'd seen him last? She had the sudden, crazy desire to brush his hair to the side, to see if it was as soft as it looked. But he moved first. Lifting a cautious hand, he slowly tucked one of her curls behind her ear with the lightest of touches then pulled away, fingers not lingering in the least. She wasn't sure if she wished they had or not.

"This way to the kitchen," he said in a low voice, moving to the right.

After a few twists and turns and still no kitchen, Belle asked, "Do you live in this big house all alone?"

"Checking to make sure there's no crazy wife in the attic, dearie?" he wryly asked, and Belle snorted, catching the literary reference.

"No, no, of course not. It's just that…I think I'd get lonely, living in such a big house all alone."

He was silent for a moment, and she hoped that she hadn't overstepped some boundary. "I won this place in a deal—one of the first lucrative deals I made," he finally said. "I intended on selling it, but never got around to it." He shrugged. "The place grew on me, I suppose."

It was isolated. It was severe and dark and daunting on the outside, so very very different on the inside but still with its fair share of shadows. It captivated her. It was like him.

"I can see how it would grow on you," she said in a quiet voice, and she caught him glancing at her. She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. "Your _Jane Eyre_ reference does have me curious now, though, Mr. Gold," she said, changing the subject. "Have you ever been married?"

Immediately, the mask was on. The barriers up and locked. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes hardened.

_Ooh. Bad question_, Belle quickly realized, and she was about to apologize or say or do something when Mr. Gold stopped. He studied her face for a moment, his own face devoid of emotion. Except for the eyes. There, she found anger, agony, guilt.

"I was," he said in a low voice. "Once."

There was a story there, but Belle knew better than to pry.

Then he pushed open the pivoting door next to them and said, "And here we are."

Even despite the tenseness that had fallen over her, Belle almost started to giggle at the sight. If this was a kitchen, that thing she had back home was a joke.

The place had plenty of granite table space, it was well-lit, and she noticed that it had two of all your basic needs. Two ovens, two microwaves, two sinks, even two fridges and two dishwashers. As she looked about, she saw that several antique cooking pieces were on display next to shiny new gadgets, and she couldn't wait to get her hands on all the tools. She was on cuisine cloud nine.

"Will this do?" he asked, sounding anxious for her approval.

"Uh…" She gave a breathless laugh, thinking about cooking her humble meal in this caliber of a kitchen. "Yeah, this should work just fine."

She asked him for some help finding the pots and pans she'd need, and she thought it was curious that whenever she asked for something, he'd pause momentarily as though running through his memory before opening the correct cupboard, but she shrugged the observation aside.

"I hope you like Italian, Mr. Gold," she said as she started filling the largest pot with water.

"Absolutely."

Something told her that he'd have said yes even if she'd announced she was going to serve stuffed caterpillars raw and wriggling. "I know it's kind of simple and probably not anything like what you're used to and—"

"I will love it," he gently said, interrupting her, and when she looked up from the sink, she was relieved to see that the hardness from the hallway had already started to fade back into the face she loved most. She smiled. And then the pot of water overflowed.

"Oh, oops," she said, turning off the water and emptying the pot a bit. She reached for a dish towel (which had the never-been-used-before kind of fluffiness to it) and tried to dab up the drips on the bottom so that it wouldn't sizzle when it heated up.

"May I help you somehow?" he asked as she set it on the stovetop.

"Could you do the salad?" she asked, pulling out two heads of romaine lettuce and the various toppings she'd brought.

He looked uncertain but nodded, rising to get the knife and other items needed.

"Do you have a salad spinner?" she asked, and he paused before pointing to a cupboard near the bottom. She thanked him and stooped to get it, finding that there was a tag on the inside when she lifted the lid. "Oh. It looks like this one has never been used. I guess we'll be the first," she said, showing it to him, and she thought she saw his jaw clench but it was gone in an instant.

Belle started to put the sauce together as Mr. Gold started chopping the lettuce with methodical, painstaking care. He had the same intense expression on his face as when she'd watched him working during the spinning class' breaks, and she turned away quickly before he could catch her grin.

"Salt and pepper?" she asked, and he pointed to a cupboard next to the stove. Thanking him, she reached for the salt and noticed that it was completely filled to the top. _Helpful_, she thought. She reached for the pepper; same thing. _Odd coincidence_.

And maybe not.

Behind the pepper and salt, she saw Mr. Gold's remaining spices in their clear glass jars and noticed that every single one was filled to the brim, and that not a single speck of dust was anywhere. Then a thought struck her. An insane, unbelievable thought.

She reached up for the baking powder on the second shelf, opened it, and saw that it was filled to the brim. The pure vanilla extract: full. The olive oil: untouched. Belle opened the fridge. Eggs: full dozen. Milk: to the top. Block of cheese: unused. She thought about his momentary pauses whenever she had asked him where something was, about how all the pots and pans and dish towels looked brand new, about the tag still hanging from the salad spinner, about how he seemed more afraid of the lettuce than the lettuce did of him. In fact, everything in the kitchen except for the antiques looked like they'd never even been used before. She glanced in the garbage bag and saw a sizeable pile of cut off tags and stickers beneath a few wadded up paper towels.

"Looking for something, dearie?"

She turned on the man, seeing that he was watching her with a curious expression. "Mr. Gold." She tried to sound accusatory, but she felt that she came across as more amused instead. "You lied to me."

His eyes widened. "I would never lie to you, Belle," he said, completely serious.

Only the smallest part of her brain recognized that he'd used her first name, but the rest and much more consuming part was on auto-pilot.

"Oh?" She leaned over the counter, resting her head on her fist and looking him straight in the eyes. He—the mighty Mr. Gold—suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, and Belle suppressed a victorious smirk. "What did your kitchen look like before today?"

She caught a flash of unease cross his face. "Perhaps a bit different."

"A bit?"

"Maybe quite a bit different."

"Please, do explain," she prodded, gesturing widely.

He paused, and he had the cutest little scowl on his face. "Maybe it was a bit emptier this morning than it is now."

"How much emptier?"

He chose his next word carefully. "Significantly."

"Like I thought."

She started to back up when he leaned forward suddenly so they were face to face, and she paused. A mischievous glint crept into his eye, and Belle sensed that he was going to try and turn the tables. "But how, dearie, would that be a lie?" he asked.

They were so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. She had to take a moment to still herself before continuing on the offensive. "Yesterday, I asked you if you had the normal stuff kitchens tend to have and you said yes."

"Ah." He leaned back again, smirking and crossing his arms. "No I didn't."

"You did!"

"You asked me if I had salt and pepper and pots and pans, and I said 'what kitchen doesn't.'" He let the words sink in before finishing, "My kitchen, apparently, was the one that disproved the rule. I did not lie, Ms. French."

She stood up and crossed her arms as well. "I'm beginning to suspect you're a better spinner of words than thread."

"As someone once told me, a man who spins golden words can win all the gold in the world."

"Is that so, Mr. _Gold_?"

He grinned. "Indeed it is, Ms. French."

She shook her head. "Here I thought I was making you the cheapest meal in the books, and I've probably ended up being the most expensive date you've ever had."

"Oh no, dearie," he said, his lightheartedness dimming. "Not even close."

Belle wasn't going to go digging in that evidently sore topic, so instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the pre-charged credit card. "Well I'm glad I didn't use much of this," she said, stretching it out toward him. "There's still $92.37 on it."

"Keep it," he said with a flippant wave, turning back to his methodical lettuce cutting.

"Absolutely not, especially now that I know you've probably spent more today than I make in half a year."

He glanced up, through the hair over his eyes, and a dangerous, slow smile crept onto his face. "Okay, how about we make a deal, dearie."

"Oh?" She'd read enough about him online to know he was infamous for his deal-making. One article had called it his "choice of weapon," his "greatest flaw and even greater, subtlest strength."

"You keep the card—"

She was about to interrupt and he held up a finger, silencing her.

"You keep the card," he repeated, "on the grounds that you cook for me again and use the card for any grocery expenses you might incur."

She tried to be firm, but she felt her stomach flutter at the promise behind his words: he wanted more dates. And she was completely fine with that.

Putting on her best business face, she pretended to think it over for a bit before extending her hand. "Deal."

"Deal," he said, taking her hand and holding it for a moment longer than necessary, then he drew it closer to him and bent over it as though he would kiss her knuckles again like he had yesterday evening. She held her breath. Right before he did, though, he whispered, "Your tomato sauce is making a mess of my stove."

It took a moment for his meaning to reach her foggy brain, then her eyes shot up and she spun around to see that the sauce had started to boil and was flecking his beautiful white stove with dozens of red, splotchy blobs. Embarrassed beyond belief, Belle quickly covered the pot, turned down the stove, and grabbed a washcloth to clean it all up, apologizing profusely all the while.

What a lovely first impression she was making tonight.

After dinner was prepared, they made their way to the dining hall which was exquisite to say the least. Vaulted ceiling, stunning chandelier, long antique dining table, several bunches of fresh flowers scattered throughout the area—everything was incredible and more than a little overwhelming. She'd never seen so much silverware around one plate before in her life, and before she even got near the table, she started to fret about which fork to use with the spaghetti.

Like a true gentleman, Mr. Gold pulled out her chair and she sat down, giving a small "thank you" but feeling very out of place. She smoothed down her dress and edged one of the three forks a little to the left. After a while, she realized that Mr. Gold was carefully studying her, his forehead a little creased. She felt like he was seeing right into her, sensing her discomfort.

She gave him a shy smile. "Do you always eat like this?" she asked, gesturing to all the grandness about them.

"Never."

"Never?"

"Let me rephrase lest you accuse me of lying again, Ms. French." A small smile was playing about his eyes. "I don't believe I've eaten in here in over five years."

"Where do you usually eat?"

"In the car. The office. The library." He shrugged. "Wherever I can work at the same time."

Belle let his confession of being a psycho workaholic slide for a much more important matter. "The library? You have a library?" She could hear the excitement in her own voice.

Mr. Gold tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, thinking, calculating. Then he stood up, set his cane on the small kitchen trolley they'd put all the food on, and started pushing it back out of the dining hall with his limping gait.

"Where are you going?" Belle asked, scrambling up to help him.

"Change in venue, Ms. French," he said, taking everything back to the kitchen and loading it into a…a—

"Is that a dumbwaiter?" Belle asked, realizing only after she spoke that she probably sounded like a child on Christmas morning. First a library and now an old-fashioned dumbwaiter. She was heads over heels in love with this house. Well, everywhere but the dining hall. And Mr. Gold appeared to have noticed.

After a few minutes, they'd transferred everything—with the dumbwaiter's help, much to Belle's excitement—to the second floor and down the hall to the library. And as soon as Belle walked in and Mr. Gold flipped on the lights, all thoughts of food became utterly insignificant in the face of so many books. The room was like the mini home libraries she'd only ever seen on movies with shelves after shelves of books and even with one of those small coiled staircases that went to a second floor of even more shelves. If this is where Mr. Gold ate, she wanted to eat every meal with him in the future.

"We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth," an amused voice quoted behind her, and she turned to see Mr. Gold watching her with a gleam in his eyes. "Shall I eat without you, my dear?"

"No, I'm sorry," she said, blushing and forcibly dragging herself away from the allure of the pages as she joined Mr. Gold. She noticed that they were now going to be sitting at his desk which was considerably smaller than the dining room table downstairs. So small, in fact, that Belle wondered if her arm would brush his each time she took a bite. And now, instead of three pristine forks and china so fine she was afraid to use it, there was one plastic fork, one plastic spoon, and a paper plate.

"Better?" Mr. Gold asked.

Belle smiled. "Much. Thank you."

"No matter."

The food had gotten the slightest bit lukewarm, but Belle could care less. It was the best meal she had ever shared with another human being. And it didn't matter that they were eating on a desk. It didn't matter that they were using paper products. It didn't matter that she had only spent a few dollars on a meal with one of the richest men on the east coast. Everything was perfect.

When Mr. Gold wanted to be charming, he could be downright scintillating, Belle learned. They talked about literature like the first day they'd had tea in the lounge, and after an hour or so of surface-level discussion on a variety of other topics, including an unsuccessful jaunt into politics, they somehow moved into more personal fields. Belle talked about her schooling, her illogical fear of moths, growing up in Australia, and, finally, her mother.

"So you moved to the states after your mother passed away?" Mr. Gold was sitting back in his chair, holding his glass in his hands as Belle swirled a pattern in the leftover sauce on her paper plate.

"It was hard for my father to stay where everything was so…so familiar. I was young enough that the familiarity was comforting, but for him?" She shook her head. "It was heartbreaking."

Mr. Gold took a sip before replying. "I understand." His voice was low.

Belle looked up, catching the empty expression on his face as he looked down at his lap. "You mentioned a…a wife, earlier," she cautiously said.

Mr. Gold hadn't talked much about himself at all yet, and Belle hoped that he'd finally open up. She waited patiently as he continued to stare down at his hands, his glass.

"Yes." His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and unlike any tone she'd heard from him before. It was vulnerable. "And…" He paused. "And there was a son."

"You have a son?" she asked, surprised, and then realized her mistake when his hand clenched his glass tighter: he had said there "was" a son, not "is." She immediately felt a sharp stab of regret. After a moment of silence, she quietly asked, "What happened?"

"I lost him." His face was withdrawn. "As I did his mother."

Belle wanted to know, wanted to help, but she could sense that that was all she would hear tonight. Feeling his pain sear her own heart, she carefully laid her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

They sat there for a moment, silent, Mr. Gold just looking at her hand on his arm, Belle looking at him, until he cleared his throat and Belle pulled back. He glanced up at her with a wan imitation of a smile.

"Perhaps some dessert now, Ms. French?" he asked, all the cool formality of before back in his voice.

Belle tried not to frown or hug him or cry. "Yes, please," she said instead, returning the smile, though hers was as forced as his.

"Yes, well," he said, standing up and brushing his suit, "I will be right back."

And he left the room.

Belle stood up and cleared his desk, brushing away any stray crumbs, before finding herself wandering about the room and ending up in the corner where there was a sheet over a rather tall though thin object. It had a rounded shape to it, and even before she started to tug on the edge of the sheet, she knew what it was.

A spinning wheel. Beautifully crafted of wood and much larger than the Saxony wheels they had at the school. It was nearly as tall as she was, and Belle recognized this model as a great wheel, one of the earlier types invented. It didn't even have a treadle. She gave the big wheel a spin and listened to its soft whisper.

"It was my grandmother's."

Belle turned to see Mr. Gold in the doorway with a bag in hand.

"I lived with her as a child," he continued, never looking up, just keeping his eyes on the bag as he pulled out five boxes and laid them on the coffee table near the couch which was nearest the wheel. "Not much of a father or mother to speak of—just her."

"Is that who taught you how to spin?" Belle asked.

He nodded. "I grew up in the sort of backwater, impoverished, forgotten little Scottish town where spinning was an actual profession." His voice was tinged with bitterness, mockery. "You wouldn't make much and you'd work day and night until your knuckles were bulged and stiff, but you could live on it. And she did." His eyes softened at the last part and he cleared his throat. Gesturing to the coffee table, he said, "I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a few things."

"A few?" Belle smiled, looking at the five boxes.

"Women, I've learned, are notoriously picky with their desserts," he playfully said.

"Why, aren't you sexist."

"Don't mistake me, Ms. French," he said. "I am quite pleased that you are a woman."

She blushed. "Well, then, Mr. Gold, I shall _try_ my very, feminine best to like at least _one_ of your desserts," she said, rather more flirtatiously than she'd intended, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

In the end, he had absolutely _no_ reason to be concerned. After Belle got over her first reluctance to eat the desserts because they were so dang pretty (and obviously more expensive than her own meal times two thousand), she tried a bite of each and melted on every one. It was a good thing they were inky dinky portions or else she may have embarrassed herself something fierce by eating a mountain of it. But as it was, she contented herself with two bites of each dessert and a stealthy third and fourth of her particular, devilishly chocolaty favorite.

He couldn't look more pleased with his success.

After she finally threw her plastic fork into the garbage to keep herself from eating more, she realized that the date was now officially at an end. She tried to ignore the prickle of melancholy she felt at the thought.

Mr. Gold started closing the boxes over the remaining desserts, stacking them up and placing them back in the take-out bag. He lifted it in her direction, offering it to her. "Would you?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Absolutely not," she said. "I couldn't be trusted with them. Perhaps that's another thing you've heard about the female sex? That desserts are not easily shed when they transform to pounds?"

He gave a half smile and pulled out only the top box. It was the dessert that she had loved the most. "Even this one?" he asked with all mock innocence.

She bit her lip, and his eyes flickered down to the movement. "Maybe I'll make an exception there," she said.

He handed it to her and when she reached to grab it, their fingers touched. He didn't let go. She felt her heart leap, and her eyes darted up to his. She felt locked there—locked between just sitting there and staring at him, and realizing how very, very much she wanted him to kiss her. Then. There. Now. She felt dizzy.

"Would you like it now or shall I put it in the fridge until you leave?" he asked in a low voice, and she heard the unspoken question, the unspoken choice he was putting in her lap: you can leave now or you can stay a little longer. He seemed just as reluctant to say goodbye as she.

She swallowed. "Maybe the fridge for right now?" she said, her voice quiet, and she thought she saw a flicker of relief on his face.

As he took the desserts downstairs to the kitchen (which he insisted on doing even though Belle had offered), she took the moment to go to the restroom (which was one of the nicest bathrooms she'd ever seen). When she returned to the library, she saw Mr. Gold standing in the corner by the wheel, spinning it slowly and staring at its movement with that serene expression she'd seen before. He seemed a different man whenever he spun, and she stood there for a moment, just watching him.

"Why do you spin so much?" she finally asked, and she saw his hand freeze.

Without turning to face her, he started up again and said, "I like to watch the wheel. It helps me forget."

"Forget what?" Belle asked.

He stopped again then glanced over his shoulder. He smiled, but there was something sad to it. "I guess it worked," he said.

Belle laughed, sitting on the couch near the wheel. "Could you…" She broke off, realizing how ridiculous her request would sound.

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

He turned fully toward her and she squirmed at his intense gaze. "Yes?" he repeated.

She stared at her hands. "Could you…spin for me?" she finally asked. "I…" She swallowed.

_Be brave and bravery will follow_…

"I like to watch you when you spin," she whispered, daring a glance up. Mr. Gold's expression was blank, but after a moment, he limped to the corner of the room, pulled out some wool, dragged a small bench over to the wheel, and sat down. Without another word, he started working, a bunch of wool in his left hand while his right hand slowly, expertly turned the wheel.

Within minutes, he had settled into a stupor of sorts, and Belle rested against the couch, watching the wheel turn round and round under its master's clever, gentle hands.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS_. _If I did, I'd take spinning lessons from Mr. Gold by day and Rumpelstiltskin by night. **btw#2** – I do hope you enjoyed their first date. It ended up being my longest chapter by over a thousand words, but I didn't have the heart to cut it down further. I also decided to stay in Belle's point of view for the whole time, but do not fear: Mr. Gold shall have some head time in the next chapter. | As always, thanks for the reviews and your continued support!]


	10. Chapter 10

Mr. Gold was spinning. And forgetting. Or at least trying to forget. As usual, the scars of Bae and Milah which had been reopened by Belle's questions during dinner had quickly numbed away under the wheel's opium. But a small part of his brain refused to forget that Belle was sitting in the same room as he was, watching him spin. A small part fluttered over every minute of the past three hours he'd spent with his Belle in his home.

_Home?_

His hand stuttered momentarily on the thread at the word. "Home" was a gushy word with more implications to it than four walls and a roof. Mr. Gold hadn't had a "home" in decades. Perhaps never. But now? With his Belle here? He'd never felt closer to "home" in his life.

Earlier that evening, Mr. Gold had been in the library when he'd seen the Bentley's headlights from the window, and he'd hurried out of the room and down the stairs more quickly than was practical on a bum leg, but he'd had no thought for the pain coursing through his leg like fire. Only one thought had usurped his whole attention: his Belle had come. Even amidst all of his planning for her arrival (which had included a solid hour memorizing where Mrs. Potts had stored all of the kitchen stuff), a large part of him had thought that Belle would cancel. The darkest part of him had even wished she would have.

But she had come.

And then when she had knocked and he had opened the door and seen her, he had never felt more lost or more found before in his life, except for the first time he had held Bae as an infant. Oh, what he'd do to bottle that siren smile, that voice, that face! She was so, so beautiful, her rich brown hair tied up in a loose bun with a few wavy tendrils let loose about her shoulders and face. And her eyes, made even bluer by the simple blue dress she was wearing. He remembered that outfit—well, he remembered all of Belle's dresses, actually. But he remembered this one especially well. She had worn it last Friday when he had tried to ignore her but simply couldn't, finding his eyes always searching for hers, his fingers itching for a touch of her skin. And he had succumbed, folding his hand over hers and guiding her on how to properly hold the thread while weaving. In fact, last Friday had been the first time he had ever touched her, having been simply unable to force himself away.

And tonight? Tonight, he was experiencing the same weakness. He hadn't sought touch from another human being since Bae. And it was intoxicating.

Every touch of the evening, incidental and planned, blurred through his mind. Him, tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear in the entryway. Them, shaking on their deal in the kitchen (where he was still mortified that she, clever girl that she was, had figured out that he'd stocked everything only that morning), and him, unable to let go of her warm hand and pulling it up by his mouth, wanting, yearning to kiss it like he had yesterday evening. Them, brushing arms during dinner where he'd been certain she'd seen his hand shaking. Her, resting her beautiful, perfect hand on his arm, consoling him after he'd told her he'd lost Bae. And on the couch—their fingers, meeting with timid longing, as he'd handed her the dessert box. He had thought about kissing her then. Had wanted to feel those smiling, sweet lips on his. Had wanted to make all of the perfection of their evening even more perfect. And, selfish person that he was, he hadn't wanted the night with all its beauty to end.

The miracle was that Belle didn't seem to want to leave either.

When he had given her the choice, she hadn't fled. She had chosen to stay for a while longer. And that perplexed Mr. Gold. He drove people away. That was what he did best in relationships, he thought with a sneer directed inwardly. No one had ever stayed before.

But Belle, his beautiful perfect Belle, was still here.

He was confused, elated, unsure, euphoric. And, true to the coward within him, he was downright scared.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Mr. Gold stole a glance at the woman who had stayed. She had gotten comfortable on the couch, her legs tucked up modestly at her side and her head resting on the arm, but the aspect about her which had Mr. Gold nearly losing his spinning rhythm was the look on her face. She had a small smile on her mouth and in her sparkling blue eyes as she watched his hands and the wheel. She looked…content. Happy to be here. With him.

How could that be?

Hiding back behind the veil of hair that had fallen over his face, Mr. Gold grimaced as he turned his attention back to his spinning and willed his mind to forget—forget that he didn't deserve her, forget that she needed to leave before he inevitably hurt her, forget her kindness and patience, forget that the spinning class was ending in one week's time, forget…everything.

So he did, letting the methodical work drag his consciousness away in its ever spinning motion, like leaves on water or wind.

* * *

Belle woke with a start when the distinctive crash and rumble of thunder shook the house. For a moment, she was disoriented in the dark room she found herself in, but everything cleared when she heard the small rustle of the wheel. Mr. Gold was still in the corner, seemingly lost in his spinning.

Immediately, Belle's heart calmed, and she couldn't help the smile that broke over her lips as she stole a few more precious moments watching him. His hair was hiding his face from her, but she could clearly see his clever, gentle hands, one moving the bunch of carded wool, the other deftly turning the large wheel. The little light in the room caught the spokes as they spun round and round, casting dancing shadows on the floor and wall. It was picturesque. Everything was measured, rhythmical calm.

It was her spinner at work.

As she watched, Belle could hear the angry pattering of rain on the windowpanes outside. Dover had been right about the storm. It sounded like a nastier storm than Belle could remember having in a long while. A flash of lightning lit up the room with a shocking white flicker, and another grumbling murmur—this one even louder and heavier—shook all about. For the first time that night as far as Belle could tell, Mr. Gold's hand paused and he blinked as though coming out of a daze.

Not wishing to interrupt his spinning further but wanting to say something, anything, to him, Belle quietly said, "I do love the rain."

Mr. Gold instantly dropped the wool to the ground and stood up, almost comically fast. "Ms. French, I do apologize," he quickly said, self-consciously brushing a hand over his hair and suit, both of which certainly didn't need the attention. He never looked a stray hair or thread out of sort. "I believe I lost track of time."

"Well I have a confession to make too," she said, smiling shyly as she stood up with him. "I fell asleep."

His eyes returned the smile with a playful glint. "Was I that boring, dearie?"

Belle laughed. "Heavens no. I'd watch you all night if I could stay awake." As soon as she'd spoken, she realized how lame she sounded and cleared her throat, quickly pushing on before he could reply. "I'm truly sorry I dozed off. It's embarrassing, but I didn't sleep much last night and—"

"Oh?" A flash of concern crossed his eyes, and Belle mentally kicked herself a second time. Could she say nothing right? There was no way on earth she was going to confess that anxiety over their date had exacted a sizeable chunk out of her REM-cycles.

"Uh, yes…I, um, had things on my mind last night."

"Then I doubly apologize for cutting into your sleep this evening, Ms. French," he said in that all-too-formal tone that she was coming to hate coming from his mouth. "Let me just call Dover to—"

"Oh no," Belle quickly interrupted as Mr. Gold had his hand halfway into his suit jacket, reaching for his phone. "There's no way I'd ask him to drive in that." She gestured to the window where, as if to make her point, another crash of thunder burst out over what sounded like a torrential downpour. Dover probably wouldn't be able to see the road, and Belle was even more concerned about how he'd have to drive home alone after he'd dropped Belle off. Anything could go wrong, and she'd never forgive herself if it did. She felt near panic at the very thought.

"It is his job," Mr. Gold carefully said, arching an eyebrow as he finished pulling out his phone and prepared to dial.

"Please don't make him," she insisted, putting a hand on his arm to restrain him. "I'll just sleep on the couch. I do it loads of times at Ruby's house, and this couch is very comfortable, much more comfortable than Ruby's, even. I wouldn't mind sleeping on it at all."

Belle suddenly realized exactly what she was saying, how close she was to him, how her hand was still on his arm, and an abrupt silence fell between them. Mr. Gold's face was closed. She couldn't read a single emotion in his eyes, his stance, the thin line of his mouth.

"That is, I mean, if you don't mind me borrowing your couch," Belle meekly said, unsure of what he was thinking.

"You will not sleep on my couch," he finally, firmly said, slipping away from her and putting the sheet back over his wheel.

"But—"

"Up the stairs, first bedroom on the left," he said, still busying himself and keeping his back to her. "It's a guest bedroom—cleaned very regularly, I assure you. Sheets and other necessities are in the closet. I believe there are spare toiletries in the top drawer in the bathroom as well. I will be leaving very early tomorrow morning, but Dover will be back here by 7:00 to take you home at any time you should wish." As he listed off everything all business-like, he had grabbed his cane from where he'd hooked it earlier and limped toward her. "I do believe it'd be more comfortable than a couch."

"But it is a very, very comfortable couch," Belle said, smiling. "And it's in a library."

"However much I can attest to its comfort myself, dearie, I'll not have my guest sleeping on a couch. Even in a library. It'd ruin my reputation."

"Your reputation?" Belle repeated teasingly. "If it's your reputation as a _beast_ at stake—" she said the derogatory word in such a way that he'd know she didn't agree with that line of thinking "—don't you think a cold dungeon would be more fitting?"

Something dangerous sparked in Mr. Gold's eyes, and he started moving toward her in a way Belle could only describe as a panther stalking its prey. When he was up close to her, close enough to touch, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Don't tempt me, dearie."

Belle shivered but hid it with another laugh. "Then I'd be glad to accept the offer of a bedroom."

"Good girl," he murmured, his lips still at her ear, and when he pulled away, he was smirking.

Belle shoved him good-humoredly, and his grin widened. From somewhere out in the hallway, she suddenly heard the chiming song of a clock which was followed by only one gong.

"Oh my. Is it really 1:00?" Belle didn't know where the time had gone. Well, of course, some of that time she'd been sleeping, so she couldn't really be blamed, she supposed.

"Then I'm sure you'd like to retire, my lady," he said, giving her an amusing half bow.

Belle giggled and, with a curtsy, said, "A very goodnight to you, sir."

He nodded, giving her one of his rare, sincere smiles, however small it was. "And to you, Ms. French."

She paused for a moment, trying to memorize every soft line on the spinner's face, then turned to leave. She'd almost made it to the door when his voice made her still.

"Belle?"

She felt her heart clench with that one, single word, and she slowly turned around. His face was solemn, his eyes dark, as he walked toward her, step by step, closer and closer, until their faces were inches apart. She felt dizzy. Her breathing quickened. Not taking his eyes away from hers, he reached for something behind her, and she could feel the brush of his suit coat on her bare arm. He drew his arm back, ever so leisurely, and she saw that he was holding a single wine-red, flawless rose which he had plucked from the vase behind her.

He took a small step back (but Belle was painfully aware that he was still ever so close enough to touch) and lifted the rose upright. "If you'll have it," he said in a low voice.

Belle reached out to grab it, and her fingers closed over his. She paused for a moment then gently pulled him closer to her. Watching his eyes follow her movement, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, her right hand grabbing his upper arm to hold her steady. She stayed there for a timeless moment, feeling his hair brushing her cheek, drinking in his scent, his warmth, and realizing she could stay there, like this, for ages and never fully grasp every sensation, then she pulled away. Mr. Gold was completely still and numbly released his fingers when she took the rose from him. She held the flower up to her nose, smelling it and glancing at him over its petals.

_He felt and smelt better than this rose does_, she idly thought, wishing she could kiss him again. Instead, she gave him a shy smile and whispered, "Thank you, Mr. Gold."

And she left the room.

* * *

Mr. Gold stood there for minutes after she'd left, unmoving, until he finally lifted a cautious hand to touch the kiss that he still felt burning on his cheek.

_Her_ kiss.

His beautiful Belle's perfect kiss.

Then he flipped off the last light and made his way to his bedroom through the pitch black darkness.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. If I did, I'd be tempted to kill Mr. Gold just for the angst. (Though, of course, I'd wait until the very final final episode of the entire show to do it, and it'd be filled with many, many tears. Beware the impending flood.) *****btw#2** – Okay, I hate and apologize to say this, but I'm taking a vacation from "Master Spinner" now that I've reached a sufficiently fluffy peak in Gold's and Belle's relationship. I don't know how long (a couple weeks? months? permanent?), but my Muse is leading me elsewhere right now and I must follow. Before I sign off, I want to thank each and every one of you for a remarkable two months and one day. I hope that I have made you smile at least once in these ten chapters. I know that your reviews, favorites, and follows have surely made me smile many times over, and I thank you for your support. If there is one thing about my experience writing this story that has most surprised me, it is the community of writers, readers, and even friends (however faceless) I have found here. So…until next time, dearies. Whenever that shall be. | ever eternally – rmkr]


End file.
